


a long road down the river

by vannral



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Blood and Injury, Dancing, Divorce, Domestic, Emotional Infidelity, Fix-It of Sorts, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Holding Hands, Living Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Nightmares, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Poetry, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reunions, Slice of Life, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smut, Tom Blake Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:40:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 88,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25657555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vannral/pseuds/vannral
Summary: “It’s all so gray. Washed clean. The outlines of the world are still sharp and bleeding but Will can’t focus on anything in it.Everything is muted. Discoloured. Still."In which Will returns home, living is hard and he is haunted and grieving. Then, he receives a letter.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 171
Kudos: 220





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. I contemplated a lot whether or not I should do this. This is supposed to be about dealing with the fact that Will is married and has children but also writing how Tom impacted him. Because the movie was about them and I loved their chemistry and relationship.  
> I hope you like it?

It’s all so gray. Washed clean. The outlines of the world are still sharp and bleeding but Will can’t focus on anything in it.

Everything is muted. Discoloured. _Still._

Despite that, sounds pierce through the fog when he least expects it – a burst of laughter, too shrill, too loud in his ears – or someone dropping a barrel, the crash yanking the reality back behind his walls, and every muscle in his body freezes -

\- _launches him into the trenches -_

’ _hey scho, did ya hear what happened to ol’ bobby dawkings?’_

It always comes unexpected, the way Will remembers. This time is no different nor is his response to it.

Air rushes out of his lungs, he’s dizzy, he’s shaken, his hands tremble as the grief – the raw wound that still hurts and aches in the back corners of his rib cage – pulses and yawns its maw back open.

 _No,_ he thinks, feeling that familiar wave of devastation and agony crushing against his chest. No matter how many times it tortures him, it never gets easier. That’s the harsh lesson he’s learnt during these months.

_It never gets better._

The loss is just as raw, just as unbearable, just as suffocating as on the day it happened.

It hasn’t dulled, it hasn’t gotten any easier.

His wife has stopped glancing at him hopefully – he hates seeing her disappointment, it stings under his skin like barbed wire.

She’s stopped trying to talk to him. She’s stopped trying to touch him.

She tried, at first. Reaching for him like it was a second nature.

She tried to hold him on some nights, but he remembers flinching back every time, his eyes wild and then he remembers he’s back in England, not in the wet trenches. How confused and alarmed he was, that the figure besides him was wrong-shaped.

Just wrong.

She pales, clenches her jaw, hides her disappointment and bitterness that she clings onto because it’s better than to explode. So she holds her tongue, bites the inside of her cheek and forces a smile.

She tries her best with what she’s got. God, she really does.

Her disappointment is the worst.

She tries but it feels wrong and he’s guilty and ashamed for thinking that. It’s not her fault.

It grows even more obvious when they are in bed. When they try – no, not they, when _he_ tries, god, he tries too but it’s not enough, he can’t return to a husband’s role. He doesn’t feel the urge, he’s too hollowed out, too empty.

_A failure._

_He’s not getting any better._

Home is not a home. Unfamiliar. Alien. _A stranger’s place._

It’s turned into something worse. It’s turned into unfamiliar walls and loud noises and nightmares and _’talk to me’_ and _’scho’._

Haunting whispers between nightmares and waking.

It’s feeling the thick blood under his finger nails, in his hands, slick and _so red and ’it’ll be dark by then’,_ the desperate terror on _**his**_ face, white and so young, and _oh tom,_ Will thinks and wonders if his chest will collapse under all that gut-wrenching agony and grief.

Will escaped the burning ruins for him.

Will resurfaced from the river for him.

Will cried for him.

Will ran on the trenches for him.

_For him._

_+_

His daughters are still small. When he came back they glanced up at him, like they had never seen him before.

_(he was a long time away from home)_

_(he made that choice, remember)_

They are careful and wonder about him shouting and screaming at night.

Sometimes he wonders if he should just leave, that it would be better for them if he did.

_(a failure and a burden to his family)_

Then, his wife’s mouth purses into a tight line and he just… doesn’t.

 _Pull your weight,_ her fierce green eyes seem to say. _Be present._

_Be a father._

_Be a husband._

_Be a man._

And a part of Will wants to scream until he can’t breathe. He’s trapped and choking in his own skin, in this damaged body of his, _it’s all too much and too little, there’s too much missing and he should have died with_ _ **him -**_

Blake. _Blake._

_Tom._

Will sits in the garden. The sunlight feels warm on his skin. He can smell the flowers – they look too bright, almost gaudy compared to -

\- to cherry blossoms. Delicate and pink and _**him.**_

At times, Will feels like he’s really losing his mind. Slipping down, his brain spiralling and spiralling into white noise and _he can’t get out -_

_\- everything is too much and too little and life was simpler in the trenches – brutal and terrifying but simpler._

Will’s breathing hitches, turns quicker and quicker into his lungs. His shaking gets worse and he buries his head into his hands. It’s too much.

Is this living? Was it like this before? Is this what he came back to?

Everything is ugly and faded. It’s tense silences and cold beds and hurt looks on his wife’s face when he shifts away from her yet again, guilty, ashamed, pained.

_He’s not the man she married once upon a time._

He’s half a life, he’s an empty shell of what he used to be. So terribly weary, so old and exhausted, already ready to pass on from this life. It’s a selfish thought, so utterly selfish, but he doesn’t have anything resembling vitality in him anymore.

_(he thinks he lost the rest of it when blake died in his arms)_

_and then sitting alone by the tree near the 2nd Devons camp_

He became a ghost, himself.

+

Sophie is a curious girl. She's inherited her Mom's eyes. Oldest of the two, she's aware of what's happening in some vague sense – why Will has been away, aware enough to make her smile fade around the edges, making her look serious.

_More like Will._

It tore at Will's heart the way she was shy and wary of him at first, standing beside her Mom, watching him with a furrowed brow, almost suspicious.

Eventually she remembered him. It took a while until she approached him and showed him her doll and stamp collection like she used to. Her favourite is still a common one penny stamp, red and with a crown. She finds it fascinating and it's the one she's proudest of.

Lottie is younger, still finding joy and magic in the simplest, most mundane things. He adores that about her. She draws butterflies, loves colours and can recite more bird facts than anyone else Will knows. She remembered him even if at times he still catches her staring at him, her head tilted as if wondering something.

Eventually she warms up to him again, as well, asking him to read her fairy tales.

He remembers their favourites, but there are times when some stories come better than others.

Some stories he says 'no' to and gently suggests a different tale.

The girls are quiet on the mornings when he's woken at night, screaming his throat hoarse.

+

They are innocent, untouched by war.

 _(it makes him remember_ _Éc_ _oust, the baby hidden in the drawer)_

Will tries but he feels unworthy to be back. He loves them fiercely, would give his life to spare them any suffering, any pain.

But that also means coming terms with the fact that he might not be good for them.

+

Will rests in the garden, sits on the bench and lets the sunlight fall on him and warm his skin.

He leans back, closes his eyes. Days like this were rare. He remembers the waiting.

He can picture Blake’s face, the dimples, the sky blue eyes that crinkled playfully around the corners when he found something hilarious, the genuine joy that could not be faked. Even during a war time.

That was the first thing that Will noticed with him, once, on 1916. Just how real Blake was, so raw and unapologetic in his vibrant existence and Will remembers thinking _’just how is this possible’_

It was annoyance at first, a knee-jerk reaction after everything – _new recruits, the war is going to burn it off you –_ but it never did with Blake.

Blake saw terrible things, yet he still chose to be kind.

He was stubborn that way.

’ _You should rest, mate, seriously, not lookin’ that well there, Scho.’_

God, Will can just –

_(he can never stop hearing it)_

His longing and grief is a physical ache in the pit of his stomach. Solid, sharp, painful. He so desperately wants to hear it, the lazy drawl of the vowels, the familiar accent, the way Blake grinned into his words.

’ _oi, scho! You don’t s’pose you mind if I sit here, yeah?’_

Will could never ignore him.

He couldn’t. No matter how much he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, no matter how still he sat by the tree while Blake talked and hummed and simply sat there with him.

Blake had a presence about him.

He crawled inside Will’s skin, burned himself into Will’s heart and the last remnants of him reside there, as a warm glow, humming old songs and silly rhymes when Will feels so cracked open and bare.

 _I’ll carry you with me for the rest of my life,_ he thinks, the thought drifting in his head aimlessly but true.

_Until I see you again._

A laugh breaks through Will’s thoughts. A bubbly sort of laugh, echoing and ghost-like.

Will blinks as if through fog. The flowers rustle in the wind.

” _Hey Scho, ol’ mate, how does that poem go again? C’mon, I know you know it.”_

Of course Will knows it.

_They went to sea in a Sieve, they did, In a Sieve they went to sea -_

_in spite of all their friends could say, On a winter’s morn, on a stormy day, In a Sieve they went to sea!_

_\- far and few, far and few -_

_\- their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve -_

Blake found it so fascinating that Will knew it by heart. Called it his ’party trick’.

There was an amused curve on Blake’s lips, a grin, so quiet and so, so _fond_ whenever Will obliged him. He listened to Will without interrupting, sometimes he hummed, and Will remembers the way Blake’s blue blue eyes glimmered, darker and somehow… wiser _._

As if listening to Will recite that poem in particular made him understand something more intimate that Will wasn’t sure he himself could see.

Swallowing thickly, Will buries his fingers into his hair and wishes again, _again and again_ that he could handle this better. To not be broken, to not feel like he is irreparably so, to not be as in lo -

He exhales.

”William?”

He straightens instinctively. His wife peeks out to the garden. Her face betrays nothing, but he can sense the sting of her disappointment yet again that she’s found him exactly where she left him.

It leaves a metallic taste on his tongue.

”Yes?”

It sounds rough in his throat. Disused. Hoarse. Like inhaling smoke and artillery fire _._

”Here’s the mail,” is her clipped reply.

Will takes a moment to school himself back in. To retreat back behind his walls where he continues to grieve and bleed and suffer in silence. With another exhale, he straightens his shoulders, gets up and goes back inside.

They still don’t have any cherry trees outside.

+

Will wakes up screaming.

It’s not a new thing. Not even remotely.

’ _am i dying?’_

There’s an urgent sense of loss, that he’s running out of time, that all too familiar horror, fear, grief wrenches him out, sinks him back into fog, and he can’t see which way is up, he just knows he’s in the wrong place, and that _Blake isn’t THERE - !_

’ _will you write to my mum for me?’_

Will’s barely aware of the words pouring out of his mouth, not even when his lungs are burning -

’ _tell her i wasn’t scared’_

“I – I can’t find him, I can’t find him – I need to find _him - !”_

“William - !”

But he can’t hear her; he’s frantic with despair, he claws at the sheets, gasping out: “ - he’s there – all alone, I left him there, he _bled out - ! BLAKE - !”_

“ _WILLIAM!”_

That makes him stop. He pauses, his face white in the dim moonlight, his hollowed cheeks wet with tears, his eyes tortured and absolutely anguished.

His wife touches him but he recoils back as if burnt. It still feels too much, too overwhelming, oily and clammy on his skin. Hurt flashes on her features. Then, she steels herself, yet again, her face going back to neutral.

“William,” she starts calmly, reasonable. “You’re home. With us. With me and the girls. You’re not there anymore.”

Will stares at her, numb, unmoving.

“But he is,” he grunts out, gutted. That’s the only thing running in his head. Blake is alone. “He’s still there. I left him there, at the farm, he died and he’s still there. I need to find him, I have to find him, I have to _bury him - !”_

The thought of Blake – of _Tom –_ haunting the bleak French countryside makes Will nauseous. Blake all alone, Tom all alone, Tom in agony, _Tom alone - !_

Hot bile rises in his throat, he wants to throw up. Shaking violently, he swallows it down.

“He’s passed on,” his wife continues so very calmly and it grates on Will’s grief. “He’s not there. William, he’s nowhere on this Earth where you can find him.”

Logically Will knows that.

_(yet he resents that she tells him so)_

He knows.

That pained part in his brain never lets him forget how Blake died in his arms, terrified, so deathly pale and blood-soaked. He died in Will’s arms, breathing out his last and that was when a part of Will died as well.

‘ _they’ll grow again when the stones rot. you’ll end up with more trees than before’._

It really described Blake, that explanation. His silly rat story with the hair oil. Even after a disagreement, trying to make Will smile, even after Blake brushed a tear from his cheek, hiding his own fear and hurt.

‘ _so… do you wanna go back?’_

Blake would have let Will go back. He was terrified out of his mind but he _would have._

There really was no other decision, not for Will. That bright, cheeky, stubborn, reckless, wonderful person who kept him sane in the trenches, had picked him, even not knowing what it meant.

That person who made him laugh. Made him remember the good things in the world.

_(of course will followed him. Of course he didn’t go back)_

And he died, in Will’s arms.

“He’s gone _,_ William,” his wife tries again, getting more confident with each passing second. More resolute when Will doesn’t answer. Because she’s frustrated, she’s confused and angry that things are not working out like they’re supposed to or like she imagined them to.

_Everything is so wrong._

Will came back, but it didn’t fix things.

He tried, she tried but it isn’t the same.

Because Will isn’t the man she married anymore.

He’s haunted by a person who is no longer of this world.

Blake was the best of men that Will has ever known. The best person, the best soul.

And he died in that cold countryside, being so good, so kind, gentle and terrified.

‘ _talk to me’._

‘ _scho’_

‘ _tell me you know the way’_

‘ _it’ll be dark by then’_

‘ _scho’_

“William.”

‘ _scho – you keep hold of me! You have to trust me!’_

_I do. I do, until the day I draw my last breath from this fucking world._

His wife reaches to grip his arm again, and he can’t handle it. Too much. He physically jolts away from her before he can restrain himself but this time she holds on. She stares at him, her jaw clenched before it smooths over again.

“William. Listen to me,” she says, her words carefully pronounced. “You’re home and – and he is gone. Do you hear me?”

 _She doesn’t understand,_ Will thinks numbly. _She really has no idea. We saw hell, we were in hell, I experienced my own hell yet again and I can’t just walk away from that._

“I can’t just discard it with a word or two,” he rasps out and it feels the most he’s spoken in a long time. “I would like to. I would like to sleep without – without _this_. Without seeing the No-Man’s Land and Somme. The destruction and death. Without seeing the corpses. Without seeing _him_ dying in my arms. But I cannot. I cannot forget what I saw. And I cannot forget who he was and what he wanted to do. Not when he gave his life trying to save 1600 men and died because he still gave a damn about being a good person.”

That’s the most he’s said about Blake after he came back. To her. To anyone.

Unable to continue, Will gets out of the bed.

She opens her mouth – maybe to call him back, to have a real conversation about this, but Will doesn’t want to. He doesn’t have any strength left in him to face it again, to dissect and to bring it up to light, in front of her eyes.

+

It feels like judgement.

+

_(it’s not her fault, god, it really isn’t)_

_+_

She did ask Will once before, “Who is he?”

_The one you scream for._

_This ‘Blake’._

This ghost between them.

Will felt like she had slapped him. He hadn’t been ready for her to ask about Blake. He hadn’t been ready to hear her refer to Blake aloud, to acknowledge his existence. Not this soon, perhaps not ever.

Will got quiet. Held his breath. Avoided her piercing gaze.

“... _he –_ _he_ _was my mate.”_

That was an answer but not the whole answer, insufficient and inadequate in every definition of the word.

She frowned and tried to get a better one but he refused and retreated to the garden.

+

No one’s ever said Will is innocent in this.

No. He’s more than responsible.

There are always sins underneath the collar.

_+_

Was it like this, before?

The wedding, the domesticity, the birth of their daughters? Walks in the park, picnics, birthdays, dinners, reading aloud, taking care of the girls when they were ill, comforting them? Kissing his wife before going to sleep?

It’s all blurred in his head.

He remembers bits of it all – the courtship, the edge of her smile, the way her eyes glimmered. Her laugh. The stubborn jut of her chin.

When he thought _I’d like to spend the rest of my life with you?_

Can he even remember it? The good parts before it all got torn down in the trenches?

It’s a tragedy.

When Will thinks about it, about their wedding photo, about their daughters, their home, their lives, he wants to cry of how wrong they got it all. How young they were, how unprepared they were for any of it.

_Surely it was not meant to be like this._

+

It wasn’t easy for her, either.

+

Still it continues to build between them. This slow poison, the resentment, the festering anger.

Will can feel it slithering in every time his wife’s eyes flash, the way her mouth purses another tight line, and _he’s a bloody goddamn failure -_

”Have you asked Mr. Collins about that job?” she asks him without turning as she helps Sophie cut carrots.

No, he hasn’t. Mr. Collins looks at him with critical eyes, _’were you in the war, son?’, ’honorable discharge?’_ Questions not asked and then politely asked, eyes too eager to see wounds and missing limbs.

Will doesn’t answer, just continues to help Lottie peel her potatoes.

He doesn’t know how to answer, and she knows it. Frustrated, she gives the utensils back to Sophie and turns to Will.

”William. That’s – we talked about this.”

He knows. Oh, how he knows.

She continues and her voice almost breaks: ”I am doing my best, I _am,_ but you need to work as well, we need _money –_ Lottie needs new shoes, they’re practically in tatters and the school is - ”

”I know - ”

”Do you?” His wife stares at him desperately, her nostrils flaring. Her throat works as she tries to control herself. ”William. I – I’m trying, but I can’t do this alone.”

’Not anymore’ is left unsaid.

He knows.

” _Please_.”

Now her voice does break, and God, he knows, and it makes him feel worthless.

He owes them this. The best life he can offer them – _he will try, he has to try -_

Deflating, he sighs. ”...all right.”

She relaxes a fraction. ”Good. Thank you.”

+

It's unbearable. Excruciating.

It's eating him alive.

_The stares, the whispers, the sounds, the smells that remind him of the battlefields and rotting flesh and smoke -_

He wants to scream.

+

He's worn to the bone. Ragged and exhausted _._

_+_

In Will's dreams, he can often hear familiar laughter.

_' oi, scho, remember the rat in the Hun trench? jus' our luck, innit? had to into one bloody bastard rat and gettin' all blasted out, the whole thing falling on us? like it wasn't damn hard enough already, that had to happen too.'_

_' our luck was so shite, christ god'_

The dreams vary from time to time.

Sometimes they are resting under a lone tree, leaning into each other. Just breathing and existing in the somber tranquillity. Just content being there together. He remembers how warm and rosy Blake's cheek felt, resting against him.

Sometimes Blake stands under cherry blossom tree branches, bathing in gorgeous light, young and free and grinning. The pale, delicate petals flutter around him.

Sometimes Blake kneels by a dark river, tears streaming silently down his face as he stares into the depts.

_(that one hurts so deeply)_

And sometimes they are back at the farm.

_(that one is like being back in hell)_

_+_

Then, one day Will's world comes to a screeching halt, in the most mundane way possible.

He comes home earlier from work, his joints are sore, his whole body is tired and heavy, and for the first time since he doesn't even remember when, he's the first one to pick up their post.

Not really interested, he leafs through, absently making note of the pile. They've got bills, no surprise there, not really, letters from his mother-in-law with her neat cursive-

\- and a letter that's sent for him.

Not for 'the Schofields'. Not 'Mr. Schofield' or 'Mrs. Schofield'.

No. It's for 'Sergeant Will Schofield'.

One small, senseless part in Will thinks he recognizes that handwriting, but it _can't be -_

He's delirious, he berates himself, he's a fool, ashamed and childishly stupid. Ghosts don't write.

But still -

_(hope is a dangerous thing, that's what he learnt in Somme and every day afterwards)_

_(after the mission)_

His heart pounding violently in his chest, Will stares at the envelope and notices the small ink-splotched scribble at the left corner.

His heart stops.

An address.

And under it -

_**From: Tom Blake.** _

+


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will reads a dead man's letter.

White noise fills Will’s head.

It’s buzzing, it’s loud, it’s sharp, it pounds in his ears.

 _Tom Blake._ He stares at the name on the envelope, convinced he’s hallucinating it – no wonder, it wouldn’t be a bloody surprise, now would it -

_Tom Blake._

His mouth suddenly dry and tasting like blood and mud _,_ his hands starts to tremble. In a numb haze, Will goes inside, barely aware of his surroundings.

It’s not from him, Will tells to himself. It cannot be from him. Blake died, he _died,_ his skin had been grey white and translucent, he had stopped _breathing - !_

’ _am i dying?’_

Will’s chest starts to heave with dry gasps.

_'tell her i wasn't scared'_

His lungs seize.

_Ghosts don’t write._

It has to be something else. A cruel joke, a mistake, some sort attempt from Joe Blake to reach him, perhaps, anything else than what it could be. Will’s vision blurs around the edges.

“ - illiam? Did you see where Sophie put her book? I can’t find the thing and I – William?“

He’s vaguely aware of his wife's presence in the stairway. Shakily, Will lifts his head and meets her green eyes, and they both stand very still.

"What's wrong?" Her attention drifts to the letter that Will grips in his fingers. “What’s that?“ she asks, now more forced.

Will’s heart starts hammering again.

“I – I’m not sure,“ he manages to say. “It came with the mail today – it – it says it’s from him.“

“Him?“ she repeats with a confused frown.

It’s Will’s turn to swallow, and he’s suddenly deathly certain that he can’t say _his_ name. It would be too cruel, if it’s not true _(it’s not true, you know it’s not true, he can’t write to you from the grave) -_

His wife’s eyes widen as the realization dawns on her. “William, no.“

Will strangles out a toneless, near hysterical laugh. “No, what?“

She straightens her posture, staring at the letter like it's going to explode.

“Are you sure you want to open that?“

“Why wouldn’t I?“ Will hears himself ask back.

“Why _would_ you?“ she asks, agitated. “You already have awful nightmares – it’s already difficult! You said he's passed – what good could this bring than more pain?“

He flinches and she falters, regretting her harshness. “William,“ she starts again, softer this time. “I – I am just worried. You are already dealing with so much, with what happened to... your friend. This would be just tearing the wounds open again.“

“They have never closed,“ Will replies quietly. “I want to know.“

“It could make it worse,“ she whispers. _Make you worse._

“Then it will.“

“ _William!“_

Now he does look at her. She’s shaking, a furious tremor going through her absolutely still frame.

“Don’t go back there,“ she forces herself to say, a warning, a plea. “No matter what it says, no matter what they want – don’t let it take you back there. You’re not there anymore, you’re _home.“_ Her jaw quivers. “Please.“

Will breathes, jagged, through his nose. Then, because he doesn’t know what else to offer her, he nods and retreats to the garden, clutching the letter against his chest.

_(like once holding the tobacco tin into his heart)_

+

With shaking fingers, Will manages to open the envelope and fish out the letter. He has to take a moment to still his tremors before folding the letter open.

His heart stops.

It’s not from the British Army or Joe.

No.

“ _Hey, Scho,_

_I’m not sure if this makes me bloody stupid or just plain insane for doing this for so many times and still expecting a different outcome, but I’m still hoping you are alive to get these._

_And if you are and are still getting these, then I'm probably the most annoying bastard on the face of the planet who just can't take a hint. But I'm doing it anyway._

_It's all right if you don’t want to hear from me anymore. That’s all right. You don’t have to. Because I guess that would mean you are still alive and that’s enough for me._

_Joe said you would be though, but that doesn’t mean anything now does it. The man is a liar, he lied four times in one sentence just yesterday and I can prove that, too._

_But anyway my point is, something else could’ve happened to you, right?_

_Or you could have moved because I’m pretty sure I got the address right._

_But in case you moved and if you’re not Will Schofield reading this, sorry that you’ve been getting these for the last few months. I’m sorry. Or wait, why are you opening other people’s letters? That’s just rude. And probably a crime. Don’t do that!_

_I now realize my handwriting is pretty bad, too. Maybe that's it?_

_But if you are Scho and if you’re alive -_

_Are you all right? Have you been doing well? I hope you are okay._

_You haven’t answered any of my letters. Which is fine, you don’t really have to, but I'd be happy if you just sent back a reply. It can be short, it can just say 'go fuck yourself, Blake, leave me alone' and that'd be fine._

_Which makes me sort of pathetic, doesn't it? Well, I don't give a toss so there._

_I just want to know if you’re alive. (And that you're all right, that's important too so if you can squeeze that bit between the whole 'fuck off' thing)_

_Your friend always,_

_Tom Blake“_

Will stares at the letter. Time expands into an infinite point.

His brain is blank, numb, and he can’t even comprehend what he’s reading. He doesn’t understand, it doesn’t sink through the fog surrounding his turmoiled mind.

What is this? _What?_

_What does this all MEAN?_

With each word, it sends his whole being into overdrive. _Months?_

 _Tom is alive? He survived? He’s been alive this whole time?_ This is real? The letter – he checks – is dated half a week ago.

All this time – when Will has been suffering with the bleeding wound of losing him, he’s been alive? _He’s been sending letters all this time?_

( _and you haven’t_ _seen_ _even one)_

“William?”

Will looks up. He’s hollowed out. Raw emotions overflow through the cracks, he can’t, _this -_

“It’s him,” he croaks out. “I – he’s _alive.”_

The tendons on his wife’s throat tense, and she makes a tiny sound.

Will scrambles to his feet, his knees nearly giving out under the sudden movement. “He – he says he’s sent several letters here,” he says, dizzy. “But – _has_ he?”

His wife doesn’t move. She’s standing still. Not even breathing. Just staring at him in something that looks like horror.

“Mary.”

He steps closer, searching her face, that awful ice-cold fear sinking into his stomach. _No._

“Has he?” he asks hoarsely. “Please...tell me.”

Finally her eyelashes flutter, her eyes squeeze shut for a second as if she’s been slapped. Then she exhales, wet and uneven.

“Yes,” she finally whispers, barely audible. _She knew._

Instantly Will turns away, his trembling hand on his mouth. “ _C_ _hrist,”_ he chokes.

“William, I didn’t know, I didn’t know who it was,” she hurries to say. “You were so – so ill, you barely got out of bed, you didn’t eat, you didn’t sleep, you – screamed at night, you stared at nothing like there was somebody standing there. You didn’t talk or – or tell anyone anything. I – I knew it was from the army but I didn’t know, I couldn’t - “

“You had no _right - “_ Will breathes out, anguished and angry and devastated. All this _time - !_

“I know!” she screams out, furious and so terribly sad. It breaks his heart. “I know! I didn’t plan it – God knows I didn’t, I just put the letters away to give to you later, but then you got even worse and it didn’t seem like a good idea, and then everything just kept happening! And then it was already too late and I just… didn’t. I didn’t mean to, I just wanted you to be _better!”_

Will’s chest cracks open again, splinters and everything just hurts.

The bitter, broken shadow on her face, tired tears in her eyes, the way he can see her reasoning, he just hurts.

Will breathes shallowly through his nose, straightens to his full height and says: “It was not up to you.”

Her expression seems to fracture. “William - “ she reaches for him, for his lapels, but he pulls away. “William, wait - “

He’s so tired.

He passes her and goes up to their room.

+

Will doesn’t find much peace there.

_Tom is alive – Tom is alive -_

Thoughts swarm in his head. Loud and sharp and merciless.

_he survived, he’s tried to contact me for months - !_

Sudden overwhelming desire to see him rises in Will, to see Blake, to confirm that it’s real, he can’t stay here, the walls are falling around him, _the stranger’s eyes watching him in horror and disappointment, he’s not good, a failure in every sense of the word -_

He starts packing.

_(did it feel like this when he climbed onto the trench?)_

_(like he snapped?)_

_(the same kind of madness?)_

His wife hurries to their room and stops when she sees what he’s doing. “Where are you going?” she asks, tense, her hand gripping the doorframe with white knuckles.

“I will go see him.”

“ _Now?”_

“Yes.”

She stares at him like he’s really lost his mind. “Did he invite you?” Will doesn’t answer. “He doesn’t even know you’re co - “

“I know. I will wait.”

_As long as it takes._

_Even if I wither on the goddamn steps._

She pales as if she’s received an answer to a question she hasn’t asked. “William...”

He closes the bag with a click. Breathes deeply. “I will come back,” he murmurs and some of the tension in her shoulders ease, just a bit. “We can… talk about it when I do.” She does not argue. You reap what you sow and Will knows how guilty they both are in this tragedy.

Will takes the bag, passes her and goes to the girls’s room. They look up from their toys curiously.

“Hi, dears,” he murmurs and kneels by them on the carpet. The sight of them fills the remains of his heart with fierce love and sadness. Perhaps this will be a good thing for everyone, a little break.

“Hi, Papa,” Lottie greets him with a bright toothless grin and shows him her drawing. “Look! S’a Whooper swan!”

Will ruffles her hair gently. “Oh, so it is. It looks wonderful.“

“It can bite you!”

“Are you going somewhere?” Sophie asks curiously, eyeing the bag beside Will.

Will hesitates. “For a while, yes. To see a friend. It’ll be temporary, I will come back in a few days, I promise.”

Sophie’s face lights up. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

This time, both girls sink into his arms. They hug him tightly, and he closes his eyes. God, how much he loves them. He kisses the top of their heads, murmurs: “I love you both very much.”

“Can you bring me a rock? I don’t have one with stripes...”

“Ooh, can you bring me a feather?”

Chuckling weakly, he gets up, ruffles their heads one last time and gives them kisses on their foreheads. Then he nods stiffly to his wife and goes for the stairs.

“William, wait.”

She approaches him, her face drawn tight and nervous and hands him a thin bundle of letters.

Six letters. _Unopened._

Most of them are with just Will’s name and address, as if Blake just forgot to put the rest of the sender’s info there in the left corner. All with the same handwriting.

There’s also one letter with different scribbles that Will suspects might be from Joe and one with very neat cursive that he’s not sure whom it belongs to.

All sent to Sergeant William Schofield.

_(was that why she hid them? because of his rank?)_

“I am sorry,” she says, looking upset. “For what it’s worth, I am, William, I _am_. I – I intended to give them to you, I promise, I just – I thought it would help you.”

Will stares at her, tired. _It still was not your decision to make._

“...I know.”

+

Will buys a ticket and gets on a train.

He’s a fool, a great bloody idiot – he’s sitting on a train, he’s _going to see Blake,_ who has no idea he’s even coming to see him -

Blake who is alive, _he’s been alive this whole time,_ and a desperate part of Will is terrified that it’s not real, that Blake still died on that farm and that this is some sort of misunderstanding -

Or when he gets there, Blake’s still not there, that it’s empty and not real and -

_God, he’s really doing this._

It’s stupid, it’s foolish, but it’s the only thing left in his head.

Will closes his eyes.

+

He has to make sure.

+

(he still doesn’t dare to open the rest of the letters)

Hope is a dangerous thing, after all.

+

The train stops.

It’s a quaint little village – with cobble-stoned streets, chimneys, stonewalls and tiles. After asking an older fellow some directions, Will finds himself standing in front of a larger farmhouse with yellow-lit windows. He can see beautiful gardens over the wall.

He can see the orchard.

He can see the cherry trees.

Will’s heart seizes in his chest, white-hot pain tearing through and it takes a moment to steady his stuttering breathing.

He swallows thickly, his hands trembling by his sides. _Move._

Every nerve in his body tells him to move. Go through the gate. Walk up to the door. Knock.

Even if Blake isn’t there, even if Blake’s still dead and Will has gone _insane -_

_Just move._

Trembling violently, Will goes slowly through the gate. Walks along the pathway to the door, lifts his shaking hand and knocks.

_I will wait._

_As long as it takes._

_Even if I wither on the goddamn steps._

Behind the door Will can hear barking, he can hear distant voices, steps -

\- and the door swings open. Rich, yellow light spills onto the step.

And a man peers out curiously.

_+_

Will thinks he’s been punched in the gut; all air rushes out, he’s staggering under all that brutal grief and agony all over again but this time he can breathe under it’s physical pressure, fresh oxygen floods into his lungs -

It’s him.

It’s Blake.

Tom Blake, who has lost some of his puppy-like roundness, looking more tired than Will remembers, his skin is paler, not quite translucent but his eyes -

_God._

They are still blue like summer sky, still bright and still so incredibly _lovely, and -_

_\- alive, he’s alive -_

“Blake,” Will rasps out hoarsely, feeling himself shatter.

It’s really him. Tom is alive, he’s alive and breathing, he’s flesh and blood and so gloriously human that Will’s nearly overwhelmed by the unbearable need to touch him in his utter relief.

_(not bleeding, red not soaking through his shirt, not pale and dying, not gasping brokenly ‘am I dying?’ ‘talk to me’)_

Tom stares at him, startled, his lips parted, his hand falling from the doorknob.

For one endless moment, they just stare at each other, frozen.

“Scho?” Tom asks, his voice breaking. “Scho, god – _what?”_

Will doesn’t hesitate. Hesitation be _damned._

He hauls Tom in his arms, crushes him into a fierce embrace. “You’re alive,” he gasps, ragged, his hand cradling Tom’s head. “You’re _alive -_ ”

Tom’s still in shock, but then he relaxes and wraps his arms around Will, first slow and careful, but then he seems to realize Will is real and he clutches at the back of Will’s coat like he’s drowning.

_(he’s here, he’s solid and warm and alive, will can feel his chest moving against him- )_

“’Course I am, you daft arse,” he mumbles into Will’s shoulder with a hitched, wet laugh. “Oh my god, Scho, I can’t even – what the hell – I sent you a few letters, didn’t I? What are ya all surprised for?”

“I didn’t get them,” Will whispers. “The – the address was right… but I never saw them, I did not know I had mail, I swear I did not know - “

“Whoa, what? Scho, wait - “

“My wife – she stored them for me to read later, I just found out, I’m so sorry - “

“Wait, Scho, back up a bit, yeah?”

Will pulls back and almost instinctively reaches for Tom with his trembling hand and hesitates, stops to hover just over Tom’s cheek. Doesn’t dare to close the distance. He’s just desperately drinking Tom in with his eyes. He can’t get enough, he can’t help himself.

Tom makes the choice and leans into his palm. Will exhales as if punched and stares back in wonder. The soft warmth, the rosy pink hue colouring Tom’s skin. He’s real. He’s breathing and alive and real under Will’s fingertips.

Tom just angles his head up to meet Will’s gaze. Searching, gentle. The light pouring inside makes his hair glow.

He grins. “Hi.”

Will murmurs back hoarsely: “Hello.”

“Wanna come in?” Tom asks softly and there is no way Will would ever be able to refuse him. “S’gettin’ kinda cold here.”

Will nods and Tom glances at his bag and something softens again around his eyes. Saying nothing about it, he leads Will inside the house.

+

The house is cozy, homely – Will can smell freshly baked bread, tea and something sweet. It makes him relax.

“Mum’s not here,” Tom explains. “She’s visitin’ one of her friends in the next town over – gonna be here tomorrow by noon or so she said. But if you ask me, it’s probably more like evening ‘cause Helen refuses to let people leave early, thinks it’s a slight against her hospitality and that’s another whole thing but anyway, s’just me and you, Scho.”

“It’s all right,” Will replies and hangs his coat. The shaking of his hands has subsided. Tom’s chatter is so familiar that it aches in him in the sweetest way. It lulls his frayed nerves into something resembling serenity.

“You hungry?” he hears Tom ask and then snort: “Oi, so now you come running when I talk about food, I see how it is, you silly blighter.”

Will blinks and realizes Tom’s talking to a rather large dog – a collie.

The whole scene is fascinating to watch; Tom has always been unafraid with his physical affections but now this dog, wagging it’s tail, just soaks in it as Tom holds the head between his hands and kisses the dog between the ears.

“Myrtle?” Will asks, amused.

“Yep, ol’ girl’s got the worst case of selective hearin’ I’ve ever heard, talk about food and she’ll trample all over you. Would sell you out for half a sausage. Yes, you would. What, you disagree?” he asks his dog and pats her head. “Wanna say hi to Scho?”

Myrtle approaches Will who just lets her become familiar with his scent. She perks up and Will kneels, running his hands through her fur. He doesn’t see it, so occupied he’s with Tom’s dog, but Tom’s smile abates into something sweet and so very fond as he watches them.

“So are you?”

“Am I what?” Will asks absently, taking comfort in petting Myrtle.

“Hungry.” He can hear a smile in Tom’s voice.

“I – a little. Aren’t you?”

It’s a weak attempt to joke but it works; Tom snickers.

“Oh yeah, nothin’ changed on that front, like you’re even bloody surprised, you bastard.”

“...I’m glad,” Will says, nearly dizzy with everything and follows Tom into the kitchen, Myrtle trailing behind them.

It’s a large country kitchen, with spotless counters, shimmering pots and pans. There are a vase with blue flowers on the window sill.

“Wanna grab some plates? The second cabinet on the left with the wonky – yeah, that one. Tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Tom glances at him, his eyebrow quirked but he says nothing. They work in relative silence like before; they cut bread, steep their tea, add slices of ham and good cheese on the fresh bread. They sit side by side.

_Like before._

“So you just found out I’m alive?” Tom asks gently, breaking the silence and Will can only nod. God, Will still can’t believe it. Tom’s sitting here, in his Mum’s kitchen, eating bread, _living_. “Jesus, that – all this time? You had no idea?”

Will shakes his head. “None. I – I wasn’t - ” He clears his throat and turns the bread in his fingers. “It was a lot, after...everything.”

Tom watches him. “D’you wanna talk about it?” he asks and takes another slice of cheese. _Easy, kind, giving him room like it’s no big deal._

It’s different because Tom knows what it was like. The horror, the mud under your nails, the stench, the ever-present fear lurking just under your skin. He knows, and he still asks and would understand if Will replied ‘no’.

Will takes a bite of his bread. “Do you?” he asks back quietly.

“Now that you’re here, kinda, yeah. Missed a lot, I reckon. But we can also just talk about other stuff, you know I’m good at that.”

Still gentle. Still giving him an out.

 _You soft-hearted idiot_.

“Yeah, I know.” _I know you are._ Will breathes through his nose and settles better on his chair. “Do you... mind me asking how did you - “

He hesitates, the word getting stuck in his throat again. As if saying ‘survive’ aloud would take it back, would make Tom’s shirt soak again crimson red with blood, here in his Mum’s kitchen.

But Tom gets it, just gestures at his stomach with his bread. Relieved, Will finds himself nodding.

“You met Captain Smith, right? Intense bloke, ain’t he? Some of his people stayed behind and found me – noticed I was still alive, y’know, kinda gurgling there, all limp and useless. Passed out from the blood loss, they told me, said the pulse would’ve been – Scho?”

Will stares at him, numb. “Christ, and I just left you there - “

Tom looks horrified. “Scho, no, no – you didn’t know, they said they could barely even feel my pulse afterwards, you couldn’t have known – Scho.” He searches his eyes, desperate. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. You didn’t know. How could you have known? I was on death’s door already, told me I was pale as all hell. Looked like a proper corpse already. It wasn’t your fault. It was mine, yeah? I was stupid. I – you told me not to, I didn’t listen and there he went. With a knife ‘n all.”

Back then, afterwards, Will remembers being angry.

He had been angry, so furious and grieving, _I turned my back for two seconds, damn your fucking kind heart, why didn’t you listen to me, this ONCE IT WOULD HAVED SAVED YOU - !_

Because he was Blake. He _is_ Blake.

He’s kind, funny and soft around the edges. Of course he wanted to save the Hun pilot and poor, stupid Will had listened to him. That one time, _one time_ when he needed to be harsh and cynical, he hadn’t been.

_Could never deny Tom anything._

After that all of Will’s anger had burnt and turned into razor-sharp grief, so sharp it was nearly impossible to stay afloat and not sink to the bottom.

Tom senses where Will’s thoughts have drifted because he reaches and squeezes his hand. It’s real, calloused with work, warm and dry. Real. Will breathes out.

“I’m sorry, Scho,” Tom says, so goddamn earnest and honest, his eyes so blue and bright. “Yeah? I’m so sorry. I am. You – you had to finish the mission on your own when you didn’t even wanna be there, Joe told me you showed up at the camp, you saved everyone – you probably went through so much shit - “

“No – Tom, it’s not, don’t apologize - “

“Shut up, and let me, okay?” Tom smiles; it’s tired and kind and Will is helpless against him. He nods but doesn’t want to pull his hand away. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, you have no reason to be.”

“Why’re you not letting me apologize, dammit? You stubborn arse,” Tom chuckles weakly. He draws another deep breath and says: “I’m so sorry. And... thank you.”

_Thank you for finishing the mission. Thank you for saving my brother. Thank you for being alive. Thank you for coming with me._

They still grip each other’s hands and Will’s suddenly overwhelmed by the senseless need to kiss Tom’s knuckles. He both understands it and doesn’t and instead just lets himself experience that thought.

“I told your brother you were dead,” he grunts, still not looking away. His mouth feels dry again.

“Yeah, reckon he didn’t take the news well, the wanker. Told me you wandered to a tree. Just straight up left you there, didn’t ‘e? _What,_ like ace going, Joe _._ Could’ve at least made sure you hadn’t died there.” Tom makes a face, so achingly like him that Will’s breathing stutters. “Well, he got the message later that I was suddenly alive but at that point you had already… gone back.”

Tom bites his lower lip, hesitates.

Will swallows. There are still a hundred questions left, he knows this – that he wants to ask and that he knows Tom wants to ask as well. He doesn’t know how to reach that gap but still he’s aware of how calm everything is. Nothing urgent is going on. They are just sitting in the kitchen. Watching each other. _And it’s all right._

Suddenly he feels clumsy, oddly bare but it’s not terrifying anymore.

“Wanna help me with the dishes?” Tom asks softly, and mute, Will nods, embarrassingly eager to help.

+

They stand side by side by the sink. Tom hands him wet plates from the foaming water and Will towels them dry.

“So you… you didn’t get my letters?” Tom asks, not looking at him this time, just scrubbing some grime from the tea cup. It’s apparent that question has been on his mind a while.

“No. The address was right,” Will says, his voice rougher and puts the spoons away. “But I… usually my wife tends to fetch the mail. She… didn’t think to give them to me then.”

Tom scowls. “Well, that’s just rubbish, ain’t it, why’d she do that?”

“I wasn’t – “ Will pauses, the quiet again in him familiar and Tom just waits for his response. “...I wasn’t well. Coming back from France wasn’t...easy.”

“Yeah… I gotcha.”

“...I suppose she – no, she told me she thought giving them to me would make me feel worse.”

Recognition flickers in Tom’s eyes, a darker and somber shadow, and he sucks in his top lip, bows his head again and nods to himself. Understanding in silence. The dishes clatter in the water.

“Fuck, Scho, that must’ve been rough,” he murmurs finally.

Will nods with a hum. He puts another cup away.

“I would have answered,” he says quietly. “Had I known – you must’ve been angry - “

Tom shakes his head.

“Not angry, Scho. Never, yeah? I – I was just… kinda hurt, I guess. But not angry.” His eyes turn glassy in the rich yellow glow of the lamp. “Thought – I thought you didn’t wanna talk to me anymore. That you had enough. Finally got back home, to your family after everything, thought you didn’t want anythin’ to do with me. A – after I messed up. After what I put you through. Maybe I reminded you of – of everything, so I just… thought I could handle it.”

Tom’s lips twist into a trembling smile, hints of anguish bleeding in and to his horror, Will can see just how deeply it has hurt him.

_Comfort him. Say anything, anything to help, to ease his pain -_

“… I – grieved.”

“What?”

“I grieved you.”

This time the admission comes easy.

Tom pulls back, surprised. “What, _me?”_

_Yes, you._

_You were the one who dug into me the deepest._

After everything was said and done, after he was sent home, Tom had been the one left. In his home’s silence and coldness. _Hidden in his tobacco tin._

“Yes.”

“Really?” Tom asks, almost breathlessly, turning to stare at Will with wide eyes like he can’t believe Will would do that, for _him._ “Scho...”

“And – I do want to talk to you. Against my better judgement,” Will adds with a weak chuckle.

Tom’s lips curl into a gently teasing grin. “Aww blimey, Scho, you sweet talker,” he laughs sounding watery. “Bet you’re gonna regret that in a day or two.”

He’s smiling and it’s the most gorgeous sight Will’s seen in a long while; beaming, golden _,_ with all the playful crinkles around his eyes, his lips pulled into a wide grin, even through his tears.

_He’s so lovely._

Throat so unbearably tight and dry, Will tries to clear his voice again. “We’ll see. If you’re not going to get us into trouble by mimicking a Lieutenant that just happens to be standing nearby.”

“Oi what, slander an’ lies and under my own Mum’s roof! Sod off, Scho, that was bloody perfect imitation and you fuckin’ know it.” A pause. “Besides you laughed, too, don’t even try, I remember, so the joke’s really on you.”

Will laughs now. It bubbles free out of his rib cage, light and genuine.

_(god, when was the last time he laughed?)_

Tom beams at him.

+

“ _What?_ You just – what, jumped on the train, just like that? _Scho!”_

Will’s embarrassed but then again, not quite.

Tom’s not having any of his silence. “Oh no you don’t, what’s with that then, Mr. ‘We-Need-To-Think-About-It’?”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” Will says rolling his eyes, but there’s a fond smile is tugging at his lips.

“Which you already knew full well and you’re still came here so whatever, I win,” Tom replies back smugly.

“...I had to be certain.”

Tom falters. “Well yeah, I get that but – seriously. I wasn’t gonna run away, was still gonna be here. What did your – your wife say? She at least protested, didn’t she?” ”

Will has no answer to that. Heat gathers to his cheeks.

Tom clicks his tongue. “Man, you’re something else.” He glances at Will, biting his lip as if wanting to ask something. Then the shadow is gone and he nudges Will playfully with his elbow. “So you’re not leaving yet, are ya? You better not go lookin’ for any inns – Lewis is a right bastard, a complete miser so you’re better off staying here, really.”

Suddenly his eyes widen and he looks uncertain. “If – if you want to. Stay, that is. Unless you planned on leaving now – but no wait, you can’t even do that, can you, the trains aren’t going at night.”

Amused, Will raises his eyebrow at him and Tom’s ears turn pink. “Shut up.”

“If it’s no trouble.”

“Pfft, if it’s no trouble, he says,” Tom huffs, his eyes sparkling with good-natured humor. “God. No, it’s no trouble, you cheeky sod.” He turns to rummage through the linen closet.

Will says nothing to that, the warmth spreads through his chest to his limbs. He’s strangely content just taking the sheet pile that Tom shoves into his arms next, grinning.

“Can make your own bloody bed, though, I’m not doing everything for you.”

“It’d still look better made than yours did.”

“Oi, we didn’t even have beds, genius. You with your proper blankets.”

“I remember you taking the advantage of those blankets once or twice,” Will replies mildly and is rewarded by Tom’s laughter. A lively, bubbling sound, and oh, it sounds just like before.

“Well, yeah, was freezing there, Scho! Lips all blue, remember? Couldn’t ‘ave that on your conscience, could you?”

Will shrugs in response, not bothering to hide his smile or how much he’s enjoying this old banter. God, he’s missed this.

With his fresh sheets that smell faintly of lavender, he follows Tom to the guest room.

Tom turns the light on. It’s a neat little room with a beautiful crochet covers on the bed and some spring-themed paintings on the walls.

“So, the bathroom’s at the end of the hallway, d’you want to - “

“It’s all right, I can find it.”

“Oh, okay, good.” Tom chews his lip, suddenly looking nervous. _Bashful._ “Scho?”

“Yeah?”

Will looks up, and they look at each other across the room – it’s a strange look. Intimate in its fondness and relief.

The corners of Tom’s eyes go mellow and he fumbles with his sleeves. “Gonna be a sappy bastard now but I’m – I’m really glad you came here,” he mumbles.

Will’s heart leaps into his suddenly clogged throat as the pure, unbridled affection floods into him.

“Likewise,” he murmurs, his voice a deeper rumble. “I am, too.”

_More than I can say._

Tom smiles. “Come kick me awake if I snore too much. I’m just in the next room.”

Before Will can stop himself, a senseless part in him feels almost wrong that they are sleeping in separate rooms and he scolds himself for that. It’s a stupid thought, but whenever they were together, they slept next to each other, side by side. That’s how it was. Not planned or even discussed. It was something that had just happened.

Close enough to hear each other breathe and be comforted by the closeness.

_But they were no longer in the trenches._

Tom shifts, lingering by the doorway, hesitating. As if he can’t make himself leave and Will understands that on a visceral level – what if the door closes, that terror slips back in, _what if he’ll disappear – and it’s been nothing but a dream - ?_

“Sleep tight?” Tom offers with a mischievous twinkle in the corner of his eyes.

Will nods, smiling back faintly. “You, too.”

Apparently satisfied with that, Tom gives him a silly two-finger salute and closes the door behind him.

Will exhales.

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, this chapter gave me so much trouble and I'm still uncertain about some decisions I made here.  
> They're so young, Will and his wife, like barely even 25, right? I think the script said Will was like, 24. They've got kids and PTSD wasn't even properly diagnosed back then. It must've been a lot. So her being tired, confused and scared about it all just grated on her, I think. We'll see more of her later. And because I'm completely useless at estimating how long my stories are going to be, I'm just not gonna put the chapter count there. So much for that 2 chapters, I'm sorry.  
> Thank you so much for reading and for so sweet comments, I appreciate the feedback so much!! You're all wonderful, remember to be safe and drink water! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will and Tom spend some time together.

Dreams are not kind, that’s what Will’s learnt.

Artillery fire. The stench of trenches, the mud swallowing half-rotten corpses, white bones sticking out -

Screams of soldiers, of young men crying for their mothers.

\- swollen dead faces in the water -

A piercing sound of a baby’s crying echoes throughout the battlefield. Will can hear his own breathing rasping in his ears until he realizes he’s hyperventilating, dry raspy heaves, _he’s in Écoust, he’s in Somme -_

The rifle shakes in his numb hands. The cannon fire makes him go deaf.

He thinks he’s blinking in the dream and when he opens his eyes again, he’s not in Thiepval.

No. He’s on his knees on the farmhouse’s yard. The embers glow in the wind. _No no no._

Gurgling. Wet. He knows that. _No._

His arms are heavy, holding -

\- _Tom._

Tom’s in his arms, warm and heavy and blood pours out of his gaping wound, _so red, it just keeps gushing out,_ his uniform front is soaking wet, it’s pooling under them, Will can smell the metallic stench, _no, no, keep pressing it, keep pressing it -!_

Cherry blossom petals rain around the farmhouse like snowfall.

Tom’s lips are painted red, his skin bleached white, and his eyes are dim, glazed, tired and haunted.

‘ _scho’_

‘ _talk to me’_

Will screams.

+

He can feel it before he hears it. The sound strains his throat muscles and then the silence ends; he’s in a dark room and he can hear himself and he can hear a dog’s barking.

And something else through the fog.

“ - ey, hey, Scho, Scho, mate, it’s all right, you’re safe, you’re at our place - “

Will recognizes the voice, _no, it can’t be -_ and gasps wildly: “ _Tom?”_

The bed sinks under someone’s weight but no one touches him. Will’s heart pounds violently in his throat.

“Yeah, s’me,” Tom whispers and in the dim moonlight streaming between the curtains, Will can make out the shape of Tom on the bed.

Frantically Will reaches out before he can stop himself – still wild in his dazed disbelief and terror _–_ and cups the base of Tom’s skull, his long fingers burying in Tom’s tousled hair. Will can feel the sleepy warmth clinging onto Tom’s skin, he can hear the slight hitch in Tom’s breathing.

_There’s no blood on his mouth, no gurgling_

“You’re alive,” Will breathes out, haggard, dragging Tom closer by the nape of his neck.

_Red gushing out, out out, it keeps pouring between Will’s fingers, sticking into his skin, pooling around them, ‘am I dying?’, ‘scho’ -_

_no._

Tom’s still warm, still solid and real under his fingertips. Will squeezes the back of Tom’s neck a little just to make sure. _He’s alive._

“Yeah, I am,” Tom replies, not tearing his eyes from Will. In that pale light, they are still so liquid blue, so star-bright it almost hurts, but this time it’s the most wonderful ache, all affection and relief mixed together. He hesitates. “Was it…?”

“...back there. At the farm. I turned my back for two seconds and you - “

The words stuck in Will’s throat again, he has turn his head to swallow and breathe out shakily.

“You died,” he repeats because he will remember that for the rest of his life. No matter that it was a dream, no matter that Tom is here now. It had happened. _All of it. It was real._

Tom meets his gaze in the dark, his teeth glinting as he chews his lower lip.

“I don’t really remember it,” he replies. “I remember the crash and the pilot and that he… came at me with the knife, the bastard, but the rest of it? Yeah, it’s a bit blurry.”

Will’s quiet, just absently tracing the fine hair on Tom’s nape, his thumb pressing on the soft skin under Tom’s ear.

“I’m sorry you had to see it,” Tom continues, completely unbothered by Will’s touch or his silence. Then it’s his turn to bow his head down, almost as if in shame. “Seriously, Scho, you didn’t – you didn’t deserve that shite. Any of it.”

 _Neither of them did._ But here they are now. Even if Will’s having hard time letting himself believe that.

He lets go of Tom and settles on his back forcing himself to breathe out. His muscles pull him into the mattress, making him lethargic and drowsy. Tom doesn’t move next to him. They are quiet and Will loses the sense of time.

“M’happy to see you,” he mumbles into the silence. It’s both easier and harder to exist in the darkness but he’ll take this gladly.

“Yeah, right back’cha, Scho. We made it, despite it being all kinds of fucked up.” A pause. “Hey, did you get any medals this time?”

“Christ, not the fucking medals...”

“With bits of ribbon, yeah?”

Now he can hear Tom’s grin. God, this insufferable person. _This person whom Will -_

Will barks out a laugh. It’s a low, rough sound and he’s able to breathe past all the tight knots in his throat. He can feel the sheets and Tom’s warmth radiating next to him. He can smell the lavender and clean soap. He can hear Tom’s steady, _steady_ breathing.

They just exist in that bed together, just pure human contact and comfort – that sort of comfort where there are no careful glances, no egg-shells to tread on, no invisible thresholds they can’t cross in fear of judgement or horrified looks by those who do not know what it was like.

No pressure or demanded explanations. Just _them._

They’re quiet for a moment again and then Tom asks tentatively: “Want me to stay?”

Will hums, half-asleep already. “If you want.”

“Yeah, I want, no offense, my leg’s fallin’ asleep, I was just – y’know, asking to be bloody polite.”

Will snorts.

+

Next time Will wakes up, it’s lighter outside. The horizon is painted in beautiful shades of yellow and pink. He takes a moment to blink at the ceiling – unfamiliar but this time panic doesn’t hit him.

He’s at Tom’s house, he remembers.

He came here last night, Tom is alive, _he survived._

Slowly he gets up and pauses as he realizes Tom’s actually sleeping next to him.

Tom’s got his cheek pressed into the pillow, his dark curls are a wild halo around his sleepy face, and he looks so achingly _peaceful,_ laying there as if captured by a Renaissance painter.

_So care-free that Will has to take a moment to steady himself._

Will stares at him and raises his hand – he’s got an uneven jittery feeling itching inside his skin, left from the last night’s terror, but he reaches and gently pushes some curls from Tom’s eyes.

Tom doesn’t stir, his nose scrunches just a bit like it tickles him and then he buries his head into the pillow.

Shaking his head fondly, Will gets up and goes to find the bathroom.

+

In the bathroom, Will glances at himself in the mirror and barely manages to suppress a grimace.

He hasn’t shaved, there’s a gruff stubble on his chin, he looks tired and worn, but still… as if there’s something new in his eyes now – in his eyes that used to be dead and sunken to his skull.

It’s what his wife saw when he returned home. A hollow ghost from the trenches. Nothing was the same.

_Now there’s… something. Embers. Sparks._

_Life._

With a sigh, he sits on the edge of the bathtub and pinches the bridge of his nose. The heartbreaking part is that Will knows why she did it. Of course he does. She didn’t do it out of malice, she really thought it would help him but…

_It was not her choice to make._

It’s another thing added to the rift between them. He’d have to return home eventually and they would have to talk about it. They would have to have a real, raw conversation. _God._ He still has no idea what to say to her but he knows he’s not looking forward to it.

Will splashes cold water on his face.

+

By the time he’s brushed his teeth, washed and gotten dressed, Tom’s already woken up and padded to the kitchen.

He’s still half-asleep, much to Will’s amusement, his hair’s standing up and ruffled on the back of his head. His cheek has the pillowcase’s seam imprinted on it, velvet soft and red like ripe cherries.

A swooping, warm sensation lights into Will’s nerve system, not unlike a swig of champagne.

“Mornin’,” Tom yawns as he blinks at Will over his shoulder. “You sleep well?”

Will hums a confirmation. “Well enough, yeah.”

“Didn’t even steal a blanket,” Tom brags, his eyes twinkling.

“How would you know?” Will asks mildly, humoring him. “You were out cold.”

“Oi, was not. Like you were any better, were out like a lamp, you were.” Then Tom’s face turns into an interesting shade of pink and he seems to struggle with himself to say something. “Mind helping me out?”

“Do I have a choice?” Will asks smiling, not serious at all. Tom snickers.

“If you wanna eat, no way. Mind getting the eggs? Yeah, those over there.”

They make breakfast. Tom puts bacon and eggs on the pan, Will cuts some tomatoes while Myrtle keeps valiantly hopeful watch over the frying pan.

“She’s the worst,” Tom mutters but looks torn. “Yes, you are _,_ you _know_ that look kills me, ol’ girl.”

Will learns that Myrtle does know and uses it shamelessly to her advantage and Tom suffers.

He rolls his eyes in tender exasperation. “No, s’bad for you, I told you that. You ain’t getting any. _No._ ”

Myrtle whines in obvious protest.

Will, on the other hand, is entertained. Tom argues with his dog for a moment before kissing her on the head again as a consolation, and defeated, Myrtle leaves the kitchen.

“...shut up,” Tom mutters to Will, his ears burning red as he turns his attention back to the pan.

Will hums, amused. “Didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t bloody have to, you’re _lookin’_ at me like that.”

Will smiles and resumes cutting tomatoes. Watching Tom from the corner of his eye, Will’s rib cage feels almost too tight, a vice has surrounded his lungs, but it’s a dizzying sensation of _contentment_ that completely strips Will to his bare bones.

Because _Tom_ is content.

He’s humming under his breath, some silly off-note melody and the light streams through the kitchen windows, making him bathe in the dawn’s hazy pink glow.

_He’s alive._

He’s alive and happy, cooking breakfast and caring for his dog, just existing here, and suddenly Will’s got trouble swallowing.

“What d’you reckon about beans?”

“In general or right now?” Will asks, not looking up from the cutting board, knowing full well Tom’s smiling.

“Right now, you arse.”

“I’m all right with either way.”

“Well, I could go for some. Think I’m gonna heat – Myrtle, _no._ I see you. Scho, you can start eating if you want, you don’t have to wait for me, these don’t take long.”

“I don’t mind.”

Tom gives him a funny look, but then it softens into a shyly pleased grin. “Fine. Don’t say I didn’t tell ya,” he says and stacks some bacon and eggs on Will’s plate.

They start to talk about hobbies – first, Will’s obvious love for poetry and classics is not a surprise and then there’s certain awkwardness about Tom when Will learns Tom’s recently taken an interest to wood-carving and drawing.

“Doesn’t mean I’m any good at it,” Tom hurries to say, the red glowing spots on his cheekbones getting darker, “but s’kinda nice, innit, just do stuff by hand?” He grins. “Made a wicked spoon for Mum.”

“Sounds good,” Will chuckles. “No splinters?”

“Fuck off, Scho, no way, no splinters, what?” That infectious, genuinely joyful laughter spills out from Tom’s mouth, and eyes shining, he continues: “Joe was proper suspicious about it too, the prick. The most he can do is a walking stick, what does he know?”

“Does he live nearby?”

“Yeah, coupla streets that way, near the church. Think you passed it when you got here. Got his own place. Well, sorta. Pretty nice. Mum’s happy he didn’t move further away but s’only a rented flat… figured he might try London next.”

“Has he been all right?” Will asks and pours coffee for both him and Tom.

“Yeah – as right as we can be, yeah? Lost two fingers from his left hand, been crackin’ jokes about it, too – more for Mum’s sake.” Tom glances at him. “How’s your hand?” His lips twitch into a mischievous grin. “Y’know, the one you don’t wank with?”

Will chokes on his coffee because he’s forgotten _that_ particular exchange.

“It’s fine now.” He shows Tom, who tilts his head curiously. There are ugly jagged scars on his left palm where the barbed wire tore it open.

Tom whistles. “ _Fuck,_ Scho. Put through a dead German, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Our luck was so shite, bloody hell.”

Will’s heart flutters in his sternum. _I know._

Their utensils clink in the comfortable silence as they eat their breakfast but Will can sense Tom has something on his mind. A question, rolling under his tongue, ready to be asked, but Tom’s stalling, apparently weighting it over in his head.

Then -

“Can I ask you something?”

There it is.

Will shrugs. “Hasn’t stopped you before,” he replies, but not unkindly.

“Yeah, no, I know that but also – y’know, don’t wanna be a nosy little bastard and poke at stuff that’s none of my business.”

 _Again, hasn’t stopped you before._ A lot has happened since then so Will takes pity on him.

“What is it? You can ask, but I might not answer.”

Tom nods as if to say ‘that’s fair’ and seems to be quite interested in his bacon. “Um, you’ve got children, right?” he asks hesitantly, not looking at Will.

Will’s own mouth feels suddenly sand-dry. He’s not sure what he expected but this isn’t it.

“Yeah,” he answers finally. “I do. Two girls.”

His gaze drifts to Tom’s face – Tom’s always had a bad poker face, and for a split second he pulls back _,_ his lips are curved into a shaky uneven smile that’s closer to bitter-sweetness and vulnerability. Badly hidden behind the cracks.

“Are – are they okay?”

In that moment Will can feel every bit of his fierce affection for this man, experiencing the full force of it rushing through his body. “Yes,” he murmurs softly. “They are. Sophie is five. She loves math and collects stamps.”

In his surprise, Tom’s head snaps up. “Seriously?”

“Mmh-hmm.”

“Blimey. When I was five, I played with frogs and fell from trees. Broke my arm, too. Yours is so much smarter. And the other one?”

“Lottie’s three. She’s trying to learn to read.”

“ _What?_ Your kids are so smart, Scho, what the hell?”

“She’s only doing that so she can read bird books by herself. That’s her only motivation, we read too slowly in her opinion.”

“ _Fuck._ That’s - “ Tom’s throat works and Will tenses because for a moment he thinks he can see glazed wetness in Tom’s eyes but Tom turns his head away before Will can be sure. “They sound...really amazing, Scho.”

“They are,” Will says quietly. _His pride and joy, the lights of his life._

Tom’s jawline twitches, but now there’s open misery bleeding through, almost like palpable agony pressing heavily on his features, too old for his face.

Worry and panic squeeze Will’s chest. “Tom?”

Tom makes a small sound and clears his throat quickly.

“No, no, nothin’, sorry, was jus’ thinking – that’s so bloody amazing. I’m - “ Tom smiles but it looks pained and Will’s blood goes cold. _What’s happening?_ “I’m really glad you got back home safely, that’s all. You deserve that, after all the shite you went through.”

Will frowns, alarmed. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, _he doesn’t know how to fix this._

“I think they’d like you,” he says instead and carefully watches Tom.

Tom startles, the light catching on his eyelashes. “You think?”

Will sets his jaw with determination and stares Tom in the eyes. _“Yes.”_

“Oh...okay.” Tom bows his head down again, suddenly shy and the tight fist around Will’s heart eases the grip. A moment passes, then... “D’you reckon they’d like wooden spoons?” Tom asks, still sounding thick but his tone is teasing, playful.

“Make them smaller and they’d love to use them for their doll tea parties.”

Tom’s eyebrows shoot up as if it hadn’t even occurred to him. The light outside highlights the blue irises, his long dark lashes, the paleness of his skin.

“Think I can manage that, yeah.” He pauses to squint at Will. “You’re not jus’ saying that, are ya?”

“No, I’m _not_. They would.”

Tom relaxes, the tense line of his shoulders easing under his shirt. His smile is sweet.

Afterwards, they clean the table and go outside. He doesn’t ask about Will’s wife.

+

Tom gives Will a tour around the village, and it becomes clear very quickly that Tom knows practically everyone. He greets them all and asks them something:

“How’s your knee doing? D’you need someone to bring your groceries on Wednesday?”

Or,

“Hey, Mum said she still got your share of jams in the cellar, want me to bring them over next time?”

Or,

“Hey, good to see you, mate. Is your Nan doing better now?”

Will’s observing all of this with stunned wonder. Tom is in his element; he bursts with energy and brilliance, so unapologetic and joyous. There’s not even an ounce of pretense or posing about him, he’s radiant, he’s interested in people in the most sincere way imaginable.

It’s something Will has always marveled in Tom. He’s just… _genuine_ without being invasive.

Since the day Tom looked at him in the camp for the first time and decided they’re going to be friends.

Watching him now, it’s...mesmerizing.

Will’s heart pounds in an uneven rhythm, pumping hot blood in his ears, electricity surging into his chest, a steady, sweet hum under his skin. This is what he wanted for Tom. Him being alive, happy and care-free, enjoying life.

Tom introduces him to people as his friend – it’s glaringly obvious from the war, but everyone’s polite enough not to mention it.

+

When they get back to the Blake house, Tom nudges Will through the gate towards the orchard.

“So which ones are these?” Will asks him when Tom closes the gate behind him. There are a few cherry trees, and he can only imagine how beautiful they must be during spring-time. “Dukes or Queen Annes?”

Tom’s eyes widen. “How’d you know that?”

“I didn’t. You told me. Back then.”

“Oh.”

Flustered Tom shifts. “Y – yeah, well, these’re Queen Annes. Mum thought Dukes might be better but… seriously, no complaints here. These are enough.” He angles his head to look at the branches. The sunlight filters through them, catches on his skin, swaying the shadows across his face.

“It’s beautiful,” Will murmurs.

Tom opens one eye to glance at him. “Even now? They’re not in full bloom.”

Will nods. _Even now._ “It’s peaceful.”

They lean against the stone fence and look over the village. Early morning mist has faded towards the grassy hills, but still.. it’s a calming, gorgeous sight. Will fishes out his tobacco tin and hands one cigarette to Tom.

Tom puts it carefully between his lips and leans forward, letting Will to light it. Their heads nearly brush together.

They smoke against the stone fence.

Tom breaks the comfortable silence, his voice quiet: “I’m – gonna ask you – and I’m not throwin’ you out, never, s’just… did ya have plans when to go back?”

Will takes a drag of his cigarette. “I figured… if you were here, few days, if you allowed me.”

“ _Allowed -_ Jesus, Scho. You pessimist.”

“I had to make sure,” Will repeats patiently, runs his fingertips on the stone’s rough surface. “I told my daughters it would be few days. The weekend.”

He can feel Tom’s gaze on him. “Oh,” Tom says softly. “That’s… that’s okay.”

“Yeah?”

“’Course. You’d be more than welcome to stay longer but…” Tom trails off, not quite knowing how to finish his sentence and shrugs. “I get it.”

“I did leave sort of… abruptly.”

It makes Tom snicker. “Yeah, you did. It’s kinda funny.”

Will can’t hide his amusement, he just snorts.

Then, they hear the front door slam, and Tom straightens, extinguishes his cigarette on the fence. “Oh, that’s probably Mum. C’mon?”

_Always._

_+_

Will follows Tom inside the house, and sure enough, there’s a middle-aged woman hanging her coat on the rack. She’s got kind, weathered features, strained by years and old grief, her nose is freckled and her eyes are very blue. _Tom’s eyes._

_Just like you, a little older._

She glances at Tom, not seeing Will behind him immediately. “Oh, hello, dear. You can’t believe that Helen – I’ve never seen so much fussing over attic windows in my life, good grief - “

Will can pin-point the second she sees him.

Surprise flashes in _those_ eyes and then, it mellows into a warm smile. “Well now, Tom, I leave for a day and already you are sneaking around with secret guests?” she asks with obvious humor and Tom groans.

“Mum, come off it… it’s Scho. Will Schofield. Remember?”

For a fleeting moment, Mrs. Blake’s smile freezes, but then she recovers and understanding spreads across.

“Oh, yes, I remember,” she replies softly and gives Will her hand. Her grip is strong. “Of course I remember. It’s so wonderful to finally meet you. Tom’s talked about nearly non-stop.”

“ _Mum!”_ Red flares on Tom’s cheeks again. “Do you have to say it like that?”

“Well, you have, I’m not going to lie to him!” Mrs. Blake clicks her tongue, but she’s obviously just teasing him. She turns her attention back to Will, and her smile turns faint. “Thank you. For your letter.”

Hot acid rises to Will’s throat, it feels thick, closed. He knows what she means. The only letter he sent to the Blakes after 1917.

He nods mutely, briefly looks at his shoes, searches for words. “It… turns out I was lying in that.”

Her eyebrows raise. “Without intending to, I’d say. You thought he had died and you still wanted to write to me how it happened. It was...” She bites her lip and lets her attention drop to Will’s lapels, as if itching to fix them. “It was a sincere letter. It was written by his friend. You didn’t know the truth and you still wrote to me about what happened to him. I appreciated that. I know it couldn’t have been easy.”

“He didn’t even know I was alive for sure when he came here yesterday,” Tom murmurs and shifts next to Will, his knuckles nearly knocking into Will’s.

 _It’d be easy to tangle their fingers together,_ a thought surfaces in Will’s head. He banishes that quickly.

“He didn’t?” Mrs. Blake looks surprised, glances at them both and seems to gather herself. “How about we’ll talk about it while we eat? You boys haven’t had lunch yet?”

“We just came back, was showin’ Scho around.”

“Oh, did you show him the park?”

“Yes, he did.”

“’Course I did. No avoiding that.”

“It’s lovely this time of year. Oh, I do hope those Colburn boys have stopped causing trouble there.”

“Nah, they’ve moved to the ponds now. Probably pissin’ from the pier.”

“ _Tom.”_

“What? _I’m_ not the one doin’ that. Kept my trousers on ‘n everything, didn’t I?”

The tension drains from Will’s spine as he listens this exchange, just as amused as he had been with Myrtle and Tom. Mrs. Blake starts on her stew while going on about Helen’s newest plan of renewing the attic, apparently in an attempt of making it into additional room.

“She’ll be sweeping those spider webs for _weeks._ I promised to go help with the replacing – the windowsill needs some sturdy wood like oak but she wants pine, it’s cheaper - “

“Uh huh,” is Tom’s reply as he cuts slices of his apple with a small knife and hands some of them to Will.

It draws Mrs. Blake’s attention to him. “So, William – are you married?”

Tom’s hands jerk back and the knife clatters to the ground. “ _Shite! Mum!”_

“It’s a general question,” Mrs. Blake snorts and gives her son a wry look. Tom dives on the floor, reaching for the knife. “Are you? A handsome fellow like you?”

Will feels blind-sided but clears his throat. “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

Her expression doesn’t exactly change but she’s genuine in her exclamation: “Oh, that’s so wonderful! What’s her name? Do you have children?”

Tom makes a faint sound. _“Mum - “_

With each pump of Will’s heart, his blood runs colder to his brain. “Her name is Mary,” he somehow manages to reply. “And we have two daughters.”

“Little ones, oh, amazing,” Mrs. Blake beams at him and adds carrots to the pot. “I’m just waiting to be Nan, myself, but Joe is taking his time with Maggie so we’ll see.”

“That’s why he doesn’t bring her over ‘cause you keep doin’ _this._ It’s not exactly subtle, Mum, now innit. _”_

“Oh, pish posh with _subtlety._ Not that either of you ever practice that, heaven forbid,” Mrs. Blake says cheerfully. “So, Mary Schofield? How long have you been married?”

Will’s lungs weigh down into his chest like lead, squeezing the air out.

Tom’s gotten back on his chair and he takes great care to look out of the window. Will glances at him from the corner of his eye. Looking at his side profile, Will thinks he can see the slight quiver on Tom’s lips.

“Five years,” Will manages to grunt out. Most of it he thinks he’s been away, in the trenches. He’s not sure if that counts. He’s not sure of anything anymore. “But we… we knew each other before marriage.”

“Now that’s better, isn’t it?” Mrs. Blake says lightly. “Better than to marry a complete stranger. Me and John – the boys’ father, God bless his soul – we met at fifteen. He swept me off my feet, he did. What a darling man, he was. Oh, your wife, she must’ve been happy now that you’re back?”

Will’s heart stops.

“ _Mum,”_ Tom says, his voice thick as if wounded. “C’mon. _Please.”_

Mrs. Blake examines them for a moment over the stove, her face almost unreadable. Then it crumbles.

“I’m sorry, dear,” she says, regretful. “You don’t have to answer, I’m just babbling, a silly habit. Stupid of me, I know, don’t mind me.”

Will shakes his head. “No, no, it was… it was fine. Don’t worry, please.”

The silence that follows is awkward.

In his hurry to ease everyone’s discomfort, Tom starts telling him about Maggie, Joe’s sweetheart and how utterly incapable Joe apparently is at flirting. It fills the ringing pause that tore everything out again, his wife haunting and Will’s guilt and shame.

_(coward)_

It takes a while before he participates in the conversation again, but both Blakes are more than happy to keep it going.

+

Later Mrs. Blake asks Tom to go fetch a package from a Mr. Oswald from next door. Tom squints suspiciously at her but then nods slowly and after promising to Will he would return quickly, he’s gone, leaving Will and Mrs. Blake alone in the house.

Will buzzes inside his skin, restless and nervous. He’s not sure what to say or how to phrase his thoughts to Mrs. Blake, but to his surprise, she speaks first.

“I wasn’t lying to you before,” she says suddenly as she’s sitting on the couch, going through her basket of different yarns and threads. “I was very glad you wrote to me. About what happened to Tom.”

Will’s skin gets clammy, cold. Sweat beads under his collar. “I don’t think I made it justice,” he grunts in response.

“You did. You were there for my son during his last moments – or at least, for those moments that you thought were his last. You were _there_ so he didn’t have to die alone.” Mrs. Blake blinks back tears but her face remains schooled. “A dead soldier’s mother cannot ask for more than that.”

“I – I didn’t mean to cause you any - “

“I know you didn’t and I didn’t take it as such, that wasn’t the intention of your letter, I know,” Mrs. Blake remarks kindly. “But that and the letter from the Army were not...easy to open. Not when the possibility of it already weighted so heavily on your soul.”

Pure agony reflects from Mrs. Blake’s eyes, causing the lines around her mouth to deepen, making her look decades older. _Tired and worried._ It reminds Will so much of Tom it actually clutches him by the throat.

He understands that, that same grief and heartbreak, rooted so deeply in his chest cavity that he could choke on the petals.

Mrs. Blake snaps out of her thoughts and smiles. It’s a fragile look on her.

“Thankfully it was not long after that Tom wrote to me, informing me that he had survived.” She turns her head to look straight at Will, and he’s gripped by some fear that she can see _everything._ “I suppose you can imagine the relief I felt then. The same as yours. You didn’t even know he had survived until recently, did you, dear? God, I can’t even imagine, all this time. And Tom did write to you, oh that boy sure did.”

“...I know he did,” Will says, his voice gone hoarse. He drags the back of his hand on his dry lips. “I do now, I just… I did not get his letters initially.”

Mrs. Blake frowns. “So the post office mucked it all up? Oh heavens, that’s unfortunate, I know he was very sad when he didn’t hear from you.”

_I know. God, I know._

Will thinks about all those months lost in this misunderstanding, it twists. It hurts. What if he had never found out? Would his wife have given them eventually? _(she said she would have.)_

He senses Mrs. Blake watching him, so he tilts his head. She doesn’t look away. The blue in them is piercing now.

“You’re important to him,” she says softly. “Knowing him he hasn’t exactly told you with so many words, but you are. And it means the world to him that you came here now.”

“Of course,” Will says reflexively, his throat suddenly burning. It’s too much. He can feel it boiling and stretching inside him, making him feel thin and naked under it all.

“It must’ve been hard for you as well, I can’t even imagine. You do not have to tell me about it, no, but… to be there for your friend and comrade as he lay dying, along with everything else? I cannot even begin to - “ She swallows, her fingers twitching on the yarn. She tries to steady herself and finally she whispers: “Thank you for coming here, William. _Thank you.”_

Will shakes his head. He’s got even less words now, to describe this turmoil welling inside him, _gratitude, happiness, sorrow, sympathy, affection,_ everything is tangled and flooding through each shrapnel-torn wall, scar and gap in him.

“...no, thank _you_ ,” he murmurs back, his voice scratching and he means every word with everything he has. “Thank you, Mrs. Blake.”

+

When Tom comes back ten minutes later, out of breath, his cheeks red from the biting northern wind and hair a wild mess, he glances at them suspiciously.

“What were you two plannin’ here?” he asks playfully, accusing just for the joke. “Up to no good, is that it?”

His mother doesn’t even falter. “Of course, dear, I thought your friend should know every embarrassing thing you did before age eleven.”

Tom _squeaks._

” _Mum!”_

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That Mrs. Blake is a sneaky one. She knows a lot, that lady.  
> Thank you again for so many sweet comments, I love reading your thoughts! Stay safe everyone! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will experiences life at the Blake house.

Life at the Blake house, Will learns, is loud, welcoming and honest.

It’s never silent. There are playful jabs, singing, humming, music, whistling, the clank of dishes in the sink, there’s Myrtle barking and the rasp of her claws against the floor, there’s jokes, there’s laughter _._

It reels Will to realize just how used to he’s been to silence before this.

Tom’s determined to make Will’s visit last as long as he can so he drags Will around the village and the house – and Will doesn’t protest. Of course he doesn’t.

He didn’t protest then in the war and he sure as hell doesn’t protest now. Not when Tom’s face is radiant in his delight and excitement, and the sight is so so endearing it makes Will’s knees buckle.

(at times, Will thinks he sees an anguished flash in Tom’s gaze, open and undisguised whenever Tom thinks Will can’t see, but then it’s gone)

Heaviness settles into Will’s gut as evening approaches – cold dread gathers in his veins, familiar anxiety gnawing on his brain. _He has to leave tomorrow. He has to go back to London._

So he just pushes it all back and drinks in Tom’s infectious joy, allows himself to smile back.

Still the thought slithers in. Like it was before, in France. In the trenches, the leave hanging above his shoulders, as a heavy weight. Leaving them behind was excruciating and now -

\- _now it feels exactly like that, the same as before, but now churning in his gut._

_It’s easier not to go at all._

Will remembers saying that to Tom, now the weight of it grips him by the windpipe. The same longing, same ice-cold realization that he has to go.

Not to battlefields but...

_The same but not._

+

They sit in the orchard.

The sunlight hangs low, red and golden, falls between the branches and the leaves. They can hear music and laughter down from the village.

It’s quiet between them. Companionable silence. Tom’s whittling a piece of wood in his fingers, the small knife’s blade carving thin little slivers on the ground. Will’s got his small notebook out, the tip of his pencil rustling on the page.

Short lines of poetry, faded sketches of people, flowers, animals.

Tom glances over at the page. “Oh, that’s bloody art, Scho. Wait. Is that Myrtle?”

“Trying to be. It’s unfinished,” Will replies, feeling heat prickle at his neck.

“S’good. If she’d stay still, yeah?”

Tom leans away from Will, bends down to pick up a flower from the grass and hands it to him with a soft, boyish smile.

“There.”

Will stares at the flower. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“I dunno – put it behind your ear?” Tom winks, and the sunlight dances in his irises like a kaleidoscope, azure, sapphire, gold, opals. “I dunno – what do people do with the flowers they get?”

It’s not a serious question, just idle speculation but Will hums. “Proper gardener you are.”

“Wha’, just ‘cause I know stuff about trees, that makes me a specialist by default?” Tom asks, grinning. “Well, I’ve never gotten flowers so I dunno.”

Will rolls his eyes, takes the flower from Tom and just rotates it between his fingers. Watching the petals flutter. It might be a bluebell. He’s not sure.

Tom keeps glancing at him from the corner of his eye before resuming to his whittling work. His thumb smoothing over the wooden surface. Leaning to blow on the creases to clear out some of the dust. It doesn’t look like a spoon in Will’s opinion but Tom seems to be happy making it.

Will slips the flower between the notebook’s pages.

+

Mrs. Blake makes dinner in the kitchen. She’s completely focused in her task but she makes it look effortless. There are bowls and bags of flour scattered on the counters, the radio plays some new popular song and the pot on the stove is simmering.

It smells like onions, oil and garlic.

“Oh, hi, boys,” she greets them when they come in from the back door. “Joe called, he’s coming for dinner, too. Said he’ll probably be late, though.”

“Doing what?” Tom asks but dutifully takes the plates from the cabinet. “What’s so important?”

“He didn’t _say,”_ Mrs. Blake replies patiently. “And no bickering, either, Tom. Honestly.”

“S’not bickerin’, it’s just… exchanging opinions. And he’s wrong.”

She snorts, shaking her head.

Will isn’t sure how to feel. The last time he saw Joseph Blake, he told him his brother was dead. He witnessed the brutal grief on Joseph’s face, the Lieutenant crumbling and clutching Tom’s tags and rings like it was the only thing keeping him together.

_Just like you, a little older._

The pulse in Will’s throat jumps in a nauseating rhythm.

Tom glances at him – and perhaps Will isn’t as good as hiding his emotions, because Tom nudges him with his shoulder and says to Mrs. Blake: “We’re gonna go ahead and close the gate?”

Mrs. Blake nods, distracted by the radio and Tom pushes Will towards the living room.

“What’s wrong?”

“I lied to your brother. The only time I saw him.”

Tom’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “What?”

“I told him you died. I – don’t think he has any reason to think of me fondly.”

“But you didn’t know. Scho, you didn’t. He doesn’t hold it against you – none of us fuckin’ do. Scho, you didn’t _know.”_

Will stares at Tom’s face. He knows that expression. That stubborn chin, earnest eyes, the unflinching _determination._ Against that unrelenting strength and Tom’s furious belief, Will can feel himself melting into it.

_Believing._

“Yeah?” It’s barely a word in Will’s mouth.

Tom nods. “Yeah. He sent you a letter, too, but… It’s okay, Scho.”

Will finds himself nodding. It’s not, not really, because he remembers how crushing that grief looked. How it felt. For Joe, for himself. But for this moment, he’ll let himself believe it.

+

Joseph Blake comes an hour later. Now that Will isn’t half-delirious with exhaustion, adrenaline and pure hysteria, he can take a closer look. Before Will thought he really did look like Tom but now on the closer inspection, it’s even more true.

Joe’s similar… and older – his features are sharper, more pronounced and there’s weary thinness around his jawline.

He brightens when he sees Tom and yanks him into an easy embrace. Tom laughs, returning the hug. That’s when Joe notices Will and the look on his face would be comical if Will wasn’t so anxious.

“Will?” Joe lets go of Tom and goggles at Will.

“Close your mouth, for God’s sake,” Tom mutters. “He came here yesterday. An’ stop crowdin’ him, would you?”

That snaps Joe out of it and he at least looks apologetic. “Sorry, I just… Mum told me but I didn’t – shit.” He gives Will his hand, the gesture exactly the same than it was in April, 1917. “It’s good to see you.”

Will can’t find his voice. “You as well.”

They examine each other for a moment, and finally Will’s frayed nerves give out. “I’m sorry for delivering bad news last time.”

Joe’s eyebrows climb further towards his hairline. His throat works but then he shakes his head.

“I don’t blame you for that,” he says. He wears honesty the same way Tom does. “Might’ve hated you for a second or two but… Wasn’t your fault. You had a rough day.”

Will can’t disagree with that.

But then Joe slings an arm around Tom’s shoulders and continues: “Did you hear, Tom, I don’t think I told you – this crazy bloke ran on the top of the battlefield just before the attack started?”

Tom makes a strangled sound. _“WHAT?”_

_+_

“You bloody lost your mind. You ran on the trench? _You?”_

A long-suffering sigh. “Yes, Tom, I did.”

Tom keeps staring at him uncertainly. “But – but you don’t do stuff like that.”

“I had to deliver the message,” Will replies patiently. “There was no time.”

_You had died._

Tom’s lips are parted in breathless shock, his eyes flickering on Will’s face. “You ran on the top of the trench, on an active battlefield,” he repeats and sags into himself. “Fuck _me,_ you could’ve – that was so bloody stupid, they could’ve _shot_ you - “

He trails off and sucks a shallow breath, then another.

Will takes one careful step forward, his hand reaching toward Tom.

“They didn’t,” he murmurs, keeping his voice steady and calm. “I delivered the message to the Colonel.”

“But Christ, you just...” Tom shakes his head, listless, unable to wrap the whole situation around his brain.

“Dinner’s ready!” Mrs. Blake hollers from the kitchen and it rings almost too loud in their ears, jolting them out of the conversation. “Joe, would you be a dear and bring some cider from the cellar?”

Joe, who has been following intently the exchange between Will and Tom, smiles with certain amount of satisfaction as if he’s gotten an answer and yells back: “Which one?”

“Hmm… I think the honey cider – no, wait, that isn’t ready yet. Grab the apple cider, would you?”

“Sure thing, Mum. All right, you two, go help her. And Will? It _is_ good to see you.” Joe pats Will on the shoulder and goes outside, Myrtle trailing after him.

Will thinks he might pass out. That was a lot. It’s all right. _It’s all right._

“Scho?”

“Hmm?”

Tom’s Adam’s apple twitches. “You really ran on the trench?” His voice is fragile, hitches and it snaps Will quickly out of his thoughts.

Seeing Tom chew on his lip nervously, Will’s heart feels too big, bursting with warmth and pure affection.

“I did,” he murmurs back, calmly searching Tom’s gaze. He has to marvel how easy it is to admit now, after months and months of grieving, nightmares and ghosts.

In front of him, Tom flinches as if stricken.

“Jesus _fuckin’ - “_ he exhales shakily, tries to center himself. “You’re a proper menace, Scho. Can’t believe that, runnin’ on a _trench,_ fucking Christ.”

“I had to find the Colonel,” Will reminds him just as patiently, his fondness bleeding in.

“Yeah – yeah, I know that, I do, s’just… _fuck.”_

“Mmh.”

Tom laughs, wet and thick. “You’re not allowed to scold me ‘bout being reckless ever again.”

“That’s all right.”

If it means Tom remains in his life, Will is perfectly happy to promise this. When he looks again at Tom, his natural magnetic charm pulls Will in by the threads, by the seams, he’s led by his bared heart, he can see the fervent gratitude laid so utterly bare there for Will to see.

An ocean, endless and real.

_Gratitude, awe, affection._

It seizes Will by the roots of his very soul, it humbles him, to witness such a thing directed at him. An act of trust, a privilege.

“Goddamn, are you two still there?” Joe sounds amused despite his exasperated words as he enters the hallway. He’s got two bottles of cider in his hands.

Tom’s cheeks turn pink. “Shut up, would ya? We got stuff to discuss. ‘Sides _you_ started this.”

“I’m not arguing otherwise, but the food’s getting cold. Move it, you two. Hope you like cider, Will.”

“Mum makes the _best_ cider.”

“I believe it,” Will says, a real smile curving on his mouth. The lightness in his chest encompasses everything; it spills, tangible and like a breath of fresh air.

It’s really all right.

+

The dinner is a loud affair but no less wonderful.

The food is absolutely delicious, the Blakes settle into easy conversation and don’t hesitate to pull Will into it. It’s all a pleasant chatter around him, lulling him into enjoying the atmosphere.

The cider bubbles in Will’s mouth, crisp and sweet. He can taste a hint of cinnamon and honey, and he finds himself smiling.

“ - and Tom had to grovel back barefoot – oh, you should’ve seen him, he was so embarrassed - “

“And he was grounded until December.”

“He sulked so much,” Joe grins at Tom over his glass of cider.

“Wha – I never said I didn’t deserve it, now did I? _Shite.”_

“He was adorable,” Joe adds to Will and gestures Tom with his glass. “Also you would’ve made an awful priest, with a mouth like yours.”

“Piss off.”

“Tom!”

“Jus’ makin’ a point, Mum, sorry.”

“...would’ve told your congregation to piss off, too? Good lord, the innocent ears.”

“Joe, stop teasing him,” Mrs. Blake admonishes him. “Well, priesthood would have been a viable option, Tom. It still is, if you want to consider it.”

Will can see the answer on Tom’s face before he even utters a word. Tom hunches his shoulders forward, frowns at his plate and evades Mrs. Blake’s questioning.

“...yeah, maybe.”

Joe glances between them and comes to Tom’s rescue. “So how was Helen doing, Mum?”

If Mrs. Blake is surprised by the change of topic, she doesn’t show it and gracefully directs the conversation to her visit at her friend’s.

“Dunno if that’s for me,” Will hears Tom mutter under his breath. He’s not sure if Tom intended it for him to hear but he responds to it nonetheless:

“I get it.”

Tom lifts his head. “Yeah?” Will thinks he might never get over how expressive Tom can be with just one word. Feather light, hopeful.

“I do.”

_After everything we’ve seen. After all we’ve been through._

Tom watches him, his head tilted to the side. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Reckon you do.” He makes an effort to grimace, but it’s all bluster. “I’d look awful in those robes, yeah? D’you know how hot they are? They’re made of bloody _wool.”_

“At least you wouldn’t be cold,” Will points out, notices Tom looking for the bread and hands him the basket.

Without thinking Tom takes a slice. It’s a very familiar thing; as long as there’s food, Tom doesn’t think twice.

“Well, no, but it’d be so boring, though,” Tom continues with a huff instead, not missing a beat and butters the bread. Some things never change, and Will is glad and relieved to see it once again.

“Does that mean you have something else in mind?” he asks and to his surprise, the colour on Tom’s cheeks deepen into wine red. Will’s eyebrows raise. _Well now._ That’s new.

“Uh,” Tom scrambles for an answer and shoots a panicked glance at his mother and brother, but both are engrossed into a verbal dispute – rather light-hearted as far as Will can tell - that’s apparently about Maggie and when Joe is going to bring her to see them. Neither of them notice Tom or Will, and with that, Tom relaxes. “Nothin’. I mean, not yet, anyway. I’m… thinking about. Y’know… options.”

For some reason that Will can’t decipher, Tom looks terribly embarrassed, the way his eyebrow furrows under it and although curious, Will decides to let it go and just nods.

“That’s good. If I can help you, let me know.”

Tom looks taken aback, but the furrows remain. Then, that wide Cheshire Cat’s grin makes its way back to his mouth. “You don’t even know what it is. What if it’s something shady? Like robbin’ a bank. Ooh. You’re an _accomplice_ now.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

Tom snickers; a delighted sound. “You mean bloody brilliant.”

_This man._

+

Joe ends up staying until late. They help Mrs. Blake clear the table and do the dishes – which ends with Tom and Joe play-wrestling and eventually Tom in a loose headlock.

“ _Oi!_ Lemme go, you _wanker – Joe!”_

“Nuh huh. You just stay there. I’m your superior officer.”

“Sod off, you’re still an unbeliev – _Joe!_ Seriously, stop that, I’ll kick your arse - “

The conversation flows with such effortless ease – Will can’t remember when was the last time he laughed so much. His belly is full of food and cider, languid warmth spreads into his limbs, making him drowsy in the arm chair.

_What a strange sensation._

To feel so light, almost floating.

The fire place crackles, casting beautiful amber shadows on the walls, the scent of smoke and burnt caramel wafts into Will’s nostrils, lulling him into contentment.

Tom’s enjoying everything, that much is clear; his cheeks are glowing coral pink in the dimly lit room, his eyes are crinkled into shining crescents, his laughter spills out free and alive and _god,_ Will would gladly grow old in this chair.

The thought lingers in him as a physical ache in his bones. _God, he really would._

Shuddering breath wrenches itself from his chest.

_He really would._

+

At eleven p.m, Joe gets up stretching from his chair and bids them finally good night. Mrs. Blake fusses, gives him some of the leftovers and makes him promise to come back later that week.

Tom and Will walk Joe to the yard gate. It’s quite chilly now outside, their breath frosts white, and the grass is covered in glimmering sheen.

”It was good to see you, Will,” Joe says, shaking Will’s hand, and truly, he can see no resentment, no shadows, no bitterness left in there. ”Don’t be a stranger, you hear?”

”No. Thank you.”

Joe turns to Tom, and a strange look passes between them; it’s a silent conversation, searching and the best term that Will could find for it is... _admonishing._

Tom scowls back, but Joe apparently wins, because Tom just sighs, slumps forward and rolls his eyes.

”You’re _not_ helpin’,” he informs Joe but hugs him, clapping his back. ”Don’t get hit by a car on the way home, ya hear?”

Joe snorts. ”As if. Worry about yourself.” He pulls back and pats Tom’s shoulders. ”Sleep tight, you two.”

With that, he waves and makes his way down the path to the nearest street and disappears behind two buildings. Pale mist drifts over the hills again and clings onto the windows. Cozy yellow light falls on the yard.

”I dunno if I want to go to sleep yet,” Tom murmurs, running his fingers on the gate’s lock as if to distract himself.

”Yeah, me either.”

”Lucky us, yeah?” Tom’s smile is more weary now and with a heavy sigh, rests against the gate, turning to look at the house. ”She worries, I know she does. About me ’n Joe. ’Cause… no way to go back, you know? Like it was before?”

Hot sour sensation rises from Will’s stomach to his throat, scalding. He forces it down. ”Yes, I know,” he murmurs, and judging by the fond glance Tom shoots at him, Tom believes him.

”D’you… do you ever feel out of place?” Tom asks, breathless and vulnerable, his throat thick.

_Oh, Tom._

Will turns to Tom, a breath between them, as Tom searches Will’s face, so desperate and _hopeful,_ and it’s all so gorgeous and heartbreaking it sends a shot of protectiveness and affection through Will.

”I do,” Will murmurs back. ”All the time. When I’m sitting at home, it’s like… waiting for a bullet to crash through the window. Reading in the living room, waiting for that shout to move out. Walking on a street, there’s that fear that a sniper is waiting at the end of it.”

Tom turns away, a wobbly noise catching behind his teeth that might’ve been ’yeah’.

”Scared the daylights of Mum one night for screaming about bein’ covered in blood,” Tom whispers. ”Was just… blankets wrapped around me, but it felt like...” He trails off and abashed, glances away. ”Sorry.”

”No, no. No, Tom. Don’t apologize. It’s all right.” Will’s fingers jerks toward Tom instinctively, but halts himself. ”I know what you mean. I _do._ It’s hard to escape what we saw but… every day is a new day.”

Tom’s shoulders give out as if a lead-heavy weight has been lifted. ”Yeah,” he says. ”A day at a time.” Some days are better, Will knows this and some are worse, but _one day at a time._ ”D’you… wanna sit with me a while?”

”I’d love that.”

”C’mon. I’ll put a light on. It’s so bloody dark already.”

+

They sit outside on the orchard’s bench, in the pale lantern light.

Tom’s whittling again, and Will just leans his back against the house wall, his eyes closed.

He lets the crisp cold air fill his lungs, stretch his skin. He can only hear the sound of occasional car driving in the village, the slide of Tom’s knife against wood, the beat of his own heart, hot blood in his ears.

_Thump-thump._

He can feel Tom’s heat soaking through his shirt into his skin. Real and alive. _God, he still has hard time believing it._

”I’ll walk you tomorrow to the station, yeah?”

”...thank you.”

_Thank you for being here._

_Thank you for being alive._

_Thank you for letting me stay._

_Thank you for being **you.**_

Sighing softly Tom lays his woodwork in his lap and lets his head fall on Will’s shoulder. His dark curls are warm wisps against Will’s cheek, his weight is a comfortable pressure against his side.

Will can smell Tom; his clean soap, pine wood, lavender and something purely like him. He counts Tom’s breathing without really realizing he’s doing it; it drags, changes into steadier rhythm, and Will has slept beside him enough to know what that means.

”Sleeping here isn’t a good idea,” Will murmurs into Tom’s hair.

”Pfft, shut up, we’ve slept in way worse places,” Tom mumbles into his shoulder.

”Don’t fancy to freeze here. It’s cold.”

”You’re such an old man, you are.” But Tom’s smiling when he looks up. ”Yeah, let’s go.”

+

The next morning comes too quickly. Will doesn’t have any nightmares, but blinking in the morning’s white light, he’s still worn out and the residual panic, blood-tinted farm echoes in his mind like a faded photograph.

Mrs. Blake’s already in the kitchen when Will goes downstairs. She’s fully dressed, sipping a cup of coffee and skimming through a newspaper.

”Good morning, William,” she says. ”Bacon and eggs are on the stove, please help yourself. Is Tom still asleep?”

”Thank you,” he says, his voice rougher from disuse. ”And yes, I think he was.”

”I’m glad he’s sleeping,” she says and turns a page. ”He’s had quite a bit of trouble in that regard.”

Will nods and pours coffee for himself, more than aware of her eyes on him. He wouldn’t call it unpleasant exactly but he’s not sure what she’s thinking, _how_ she’s thinking it.

”William.”

”Yes?”

He can hear her folding the newspaper, careful and meticulous in her movements and set the paper on the table.

Bracing himself, Will turns. In that harsh morning light, Mrs. Blake looks every bit of her age. War has carved itself onto her features as well, thin and _tired._ Still there’s no unkindness there.

”What time is your train leaving?” she asks and Will is left with a feeling that’s not what she wanted to ask.

”Noon, I think.” He takes a careful sip of his coffee. ”Thank you for letting me stay this long.”

”Oh, dear, always. You aren’t a bother, on the contrary. It’s been a delight.”

That’s when Tom slouches in, yawning. His hair’s a ruffled mess, and this time Will notices the dark circles around his eyes.

”Did you sleep well, dear?” Mrs. Blake asks, feigning casual easiness. Tom pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut as if to keep himself awake.

”Oh yeah, guess so. Seein’ bloody double.”

”Coffee?” Will asks.

”Yeah, thanks.”

They eat and pipe up some word suggestions to Mrs. Blake’s crossword.

As long as mornings go, it’s a good one.

+

At noon, Tom walks Will to the train station.

They don’t hurry. They walk side by side – their pace being a remnant from their marches _(rifles heavy in their hands, the gear weighing them down)_ but they are conscious of it now to take it easy.

It’s a beautiful day. Clear, light – the colours on the leaves reflect orange, red, yellow on them, a hazy glow. It smells like tart apples and autumn.

The empty crack that splintered open in Will’s chest during the night widens with each step. Dread solidifies in his veins, ice block drags its way into his guts.

_Leaving is excruciating._

Now he feels it in his skin again, itching and scalding.

”Hey, Scho, I’ve got something for you,” Tom says when they find the right track.

Will raises an eyebrow. ”Oh?”

”Oh hush, why’re you so suspicious? Just wait, all right? Hold on.” Tom searches his pockets and seems to gather himself -

\- and hands something to Will.

First Will realizes it’s two somethings.

Two small wooden figurines and as he inspects them closer, his breathing stutters. They are carved animals, foxes by the look of them, maybe two inches in height, smooth to touch, with no hard edges or splinters in sight.

They’re clumsy in design but Will can clearly see how much thought and effort has been put in making them.

”Tom,” Will manages to get his vocal chords moving, unable to take his eyes off the figurines. His vision stings around the corners. _God._

”For your daughters,” Tom says, flustered. ”I mean, if you’re not embarrassed to give ’em. They’re not that – I mean, I’m practicing. Oh, god, they’re awful, give ’em back, Scho - ”

Will pulls them back from Tom’s reach. ”No. No way.”

Tom chews his lip, helpless. ”I just thought - ”

”Tom.” Will stares at the animals on his palm, licks his lips to collect himself – he feels adrift, hopelessly thrown into a maelstrom. _This man, this amazing person, he just –_ Will doesn’t even have the words. He just lets himself feel and puts the carvings in his breast pocket. ”Thank you. They will love them.”

”No, they won’t, you liar.” But Tom’s anxiety seems to ease, even if the ruddy hue on his skin doesn’t. He steals a glance at Will under his curls. ”You – you reckon?”

”I do. You didn’t have to do that,” Will says quietly. He’s sure his chest is about to collapse in on itself under the fierce surge of everything he feels.

”Yeah, well, I just… thought… a souvenir? I mean, s’pretty rubbish souvenir, I think they’re both cross-eyed. Have you ever seen a cross-eyed fox? Bloody hell, I should’ve just given you some of the jams, why didn’t I do that?”

”Tom.” Will steps closer and Tom doesn’t move, merely angles his head to meet his gaze. ” _Thank you._ It’s more than enough. It must’ve taken you a long time - ”

”I told you, I was practicing. Can’t just make spoons, yeah?” Tom’s grin comes easy and so incredibly endearing.

He’s lovely in the slanted light. His dimples blossom in sight, his eyes are half-lidded and the vast blue in his gaze gleams star-bright.

”Will you come to London?” Will asks, his voice rough. The muscles in his arm tense, he wants to reach out, to brush his fingertips on Tom, to make sure he’s real in front of him.

Tom laughs, but there’s something sad about it. ”You can just invite me like that? Reckon you gotta ask your wife? Or should I do it like you and just show up?”

Will doesn’t know what to say to that. He just stares at Tom, desperate. ”Please,” he grunts. ”I spent months thinking you were dead. Not again.”

”Oh,” Tom says, stunned. Then, he bows his head, shyly. ”That’s so sappy, Scho.”

”I mean it,” Will says, not being able to look away. This is it. He’s sundered, broken apart. And he’s not sorry for one bit for it.

Tom lifts his chin, that blue drawing Will in again. ”I’d like that,” he whispers. ”I do. Write to me?”

_Talk to me._

”I will.”

That’s a promise. A solemn vow. One Will is determined to keep.

_(i ran on the trenches for you.)_

Tom inches forward, the space between them getting more glaring and painful like a red wound, but they are stuck in the middle of it, staring at each other.

”Travel safe, yeah?” Tom whispers and after a beat, gives Will his hand.

Will grabs it and squeezes. It’s a strong hand, the hot callouses press into Will’s own, their fingers intertwining for a second before letting go. Lingering.

And Will becomes painfully aware that he really is leaving. It strikes a wrong, distorted note in him.

Last time they left each other, Tom had died, it was out of their own control and before that? God, Will can’t even remember. Their leaves had been similarly scheduled, back then.

Now logically Will knows he’s being stupid but he can’t help but to feel like everything about the fact he’s leaving Tom behind, is _wrong._

Out loud, he says: ”Yes. Till we see again.”

Tom flashes one last, dimpled smile that wavers around the edges. ”Till we see again, Scho.”

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, writing this story is very therapeutic. I'm going back to work on Monday, so the updates might get slower but we'll see!   
> Thank you so much for reading and all the kind comments, they are so sweet and just a pleasure to read! <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tom visits Will's house.

Will gets on the train.

During the ride to London, the serenity settles into him. Into crystal clear waters. He feels centered, calm, _grounded._ His lungs no longer feel like paper.

Perhaps that’s why he finds the strength to fish out the letters and hold them in his fingers and just weighs them. Weighs his options.

Should he? Tom is already alive.

 _He’s alive, you know the end._ At least the end so far. So Will opens the letters and one by one, reads through every single of one.

With each letter, his heart grows heavier in his chest, sinking lower and lower like a stone, dragging him down. Hot bitter taste fills his mouth. It’s special kind of torture, both slow and deliberate.

Tom stays positive on his letters, but Will can see the nerves, the confusion, _hurt_ in the scribbled lines as they go on. In them, Tom is painfully hopeful, he’s so eager and it stings at Will’s eyes. The need to cry burns on top of his pharynx and he has to take a moment to glance out of the window at the overgrown fields.

_God, I’m so sorry...all these months…wasted._

One is from Mrs. Blake. It’s her reply to Will’s letter regarding Tom’s… passing and it’s just as genuine as her son’s, politely thanking him for being there. Nothing in it rings false or contradicts how she treated him at the house.

The last one is from Joe, telling him the same – Tom has survived, he’s all right and alive at their family house. Invitations to visit them. How much Tom wants to see him.

Now it throbs and bleeds behind that relief and joy.

Swallowing, Will puts the letters away and his fingers meet the wooden figurines in his breast pocket. It gives him a pause.

_For your daughters._

God, Will can’t even believe Tom did that. Just because he could, just because he knows Will has small children. Because he’s _Tom._ Kind-hearted, sincere, so _fucking_ good of a person.

+

Will gets home.

Inside their house, it’s dark, quiet. Will’s hand stills on the door knob, dread knotting in his throat.

_Are they - ?_

Then, he hears footsteps and Mary peeks to the hallway.

They stand frozen, staring at each other.

Mary’s eyes are wide, shocked. Will isn’t sure what exactly she sees in him, is there a palpable change in him? It’s only been two days since Will left, but somehow it feels like it’s been a life time since then.

Her mouth trembles as she tries to form words.

”Welcome home,” she whispers out loud instead.

Suddenly weary, Will nods, shrugs his coat off and hangs it on the rack.

She watches him, not quite being able to hold herself still. ”Did you… find him?”

”Yes,” Will murmurs. ”He’s alive. He’s all right.”

Mary lets out an uneven breath, her eyes falling shut as if she’s suddenly lost the strength to hold herself upright.

”I’m – I’m glad.”

Will doesn’t know what to say to that. Mary’s own part in the whole fiasco isn’t easily overlooked and apparently it occurs to her as well, because she looks away.

”Are you hungry?” she asks, strained.

”No, thank you,” Will replies. The warmth has leeched from his skin, leaving behind just bone-deep exhaustion that feels intimately familiar again. Mary frowns, and Will realizes he probably should’ve said ’yes’. Play by the rules.

_He’s just so tired._

”Where are the girls?”

”My parents took them for a few days,” Mary replies, running her thumb on her knuckles. ”I – I needed to think.” She glances at the living room and seems to collect herself. ”William. Can – can we talk about this?”

’This’

It’s almost funny that there is a word for it.

The painful vice around Will’s temples tightens and he rubs his forehead. He’s not ready for this conversation. Not _now._ He knows they need to do this, to acknowledge the rift between them, to talk things through but…

 _It’s so quiet here._ Darkness, the smell of factories, dust and smoke cling onto the walls here, a stark contrast between _here_ and the Blake house.

”I know,” Will says instead.

Her face hardens, then turns to pleading. ”I’d like to talk about it now. _Please.”_

It sucks air out of this brittle shell that’s his body. _Now._ But he understands it, too. _God, does he understand._

So he just nods.

Mary relaxes a fraction, and they go to their living room.

She sits across him, wrings her hands in her lap, and the silence is suffocating.

”William – I am sorry.” It sounds formal, and Will wonders how many times she’s rehearsed this in her head. ”I want to say that right now. I – I know you might not… believe me, but I _am._ I’m so sorry. But I – I did it with best intentions in mind, I promise. I did it to help you. I failed, obviously, but I _tried._ ”

”I know,” he answers. He does. He feels strangely detached, mechanical almost.

She looks hurt. ”But you still – you don’t forgive me.”

The muscles in Will’s neck constrict, and he has to look down at the carpet as if it could help him here. He doesn’t deny it. Guilt rushes through his system, burning like acid. He should. He knows he _should forgive, but -_

_\- but he can’t._

Not yet.

It still stings and gnaws under his skin, old grief lingering inside, that grief used to torment and haunt him during night time. A constant reminder of what happened and what he thought had occured.

”I still… need to think about it.”

She nods slowly, almost limp, staring at him. ”All right,” she says weakly. ”All right. Well, then.” She brushes hair behind her ear to distract herself. ”Do you – do you at least understand why I did it?”

”Yes.”

”Do you?” she asks, her voice tight again. ”I didn’t know what to do. God, William. I – I know you saw awful, _awful_ things there – I didn’t know what else to do. I was… I was scared. You didn’t come to visit us during your leave – and I didn’t know what to think or what even had happened or _why_ – you didn’t _tell_ me anything.”

Tears fill her eyes now.

Will adjusts his position on the chair. It feels lumpy, uncomfortable, pressing into his joints.

”Because everything that happened there,” he starts, feeling like a tired old man, ”is thousand times worse than how I can ever tell it. I can’t even begin to tell you how nightmarish it all was. It’s impossible for anyone else to understand if they were not there.”

Hurt flashes on her face again. ”I’d like to know.”

”No,” Will says. ”You really wouldn’t. Please don’t ask me to tell you.”

”You’re my husband,” Mary says, now getting stubborn in her distress. ”In sickness and in health. That’s what we promised! You’re suffering _now,_ William,I want to help.”

Will stares into her eyes, despair trickling in through the cracks. ”Don’t ask me to tell you, Mary. _Please_.”

He’s asking. He’s begging.

Her jaw quivers. ”Tell me what to do,” she whispers, grasping at Will’s sleeve. ” _Please._ Tell me how to help.”

His heart breaks. Splinters across his whole being, into his spine, into his skull.

_How did things go so wrong?_

”I don’t know,” he whispers back, hanging his head low. ”I don’t know.”

_Please don’t ask me to tell._

With a stifled sob, Mary just holds his sleeve.

In this moment, later in retrospect, Will is sure things began to unravel for real.

+

He can feel her glances again. Trying to see. Trying to gauge him. Waiting. Watching him flinch and shrink back. It feels claustrophobic, as if something’s crawling on skin, into his hair, into his scalp, like the buzzing flies in the No-Man’s-Land feasting on the dead horses, laying in the mud.

+

It used to be easy.

Will has never been an outgoing person; he found comfort in books and poetry, content to let other people do the talking. Mary is reserved in her own way but determined, fierce. Now it clashes. Their communication has soured, plunged into a reeking sewer.

It’s about the hard edges, every word becomes a distorted note like a violin tuned wrong.

_A minefield._

And Will has no idea how to fix any of that. How to talk to her like before.

_(this is a stranger’s place)_

Did the war damage him beyond repair?

+

The girls come home and Will gives them the figurines.

Their little faces brighten in explosive joy; they squeal and giggle, marvelling the ears and the tails.

”My friend made them,” he explains them, watching their happiness with a lightened heart. ”He wanted you to have them.”

”Can he make a pony?”

Will thinks back about Tom’s bashfulness regarding his skills. ”Maybe later when he’s practiced enough,” he tells them. ”But in the meanwhile, take good care of them, all right?”

”Yep yep, Papa!”

”I’ll call mine Reynard.”

+

Will takes the habit of fetching the mail himself.

+

Mary notices, and there’s always a shadow on her face – shame, guilt.

+

In bed, the pressure, the _failure_ presses into his sides like punched bruises.

He can feel the heaviness of her expectations. The silence rings in his ears, deafening. Each rustle on their sheets. The bristles of her brush going through her hair.

_(once he’d admired that shine on her hair)_

His skin breaks into goosebumps. Chills dig underneath. Hair stands up.

_(it’s nothing he wants)_

The bed dips under her weight. Her night gown rustles. She reaches – and lays her hand between his shoulder blades. The touch jolts, like an ice-cold lightning and before he realizes he’s doing it, he flinches back, out of her reach.

It’s deathly quiet.

”William?”

His throat doesn’t work.

”Why?” She sounds _frail._

_(disappointment is the teeth underneath the surface.)_

_Be a husband._

He releases another tight breath through the fingers, rests them on his quivering mouth. He feels feral, unbridled in his skin, ready to _scream -_

”I – I don’t know,” he stammers. ”I’m sorry.”

She pauses behind him. ”Is it – is it me?”

_God._

Words screech and crackle in his mouth like a rusted machinery. What can he say? What sort of bloody useless explanation can he offer?

Will can barely parse out his own thoughts, the fucking mess that it is inside his skull, _so how can he explain to her the jumbled chaos that the war left behind in him?_

Will drags hands on his face. ”No. No, it’s not you.”

She’s still for a beat, then he feels the bed dip again as she shuffles across it and carefully wraps her slim arms around him.

_Claustrophobic. Tight._

He remembers the weight of her body once. How she felt against him. Warm and soft.

It all tears at him now. Too hot, too cold, too heavy, too shaking, too _still -_

_\- just STOP IT_

She pulls away. The weight disappears, and the temperature drops into freezing.

”What do I do?” she asks, sounding distant, desperate. ”William?”

”I don’t know.” His voice breaks. ”I don’t know.” After swallowing few times, he gets up, desperate to get away. ”I’ll just… go read a while.”

In the faint light on her night table, she looks lost. Hurt, confused, angry _._

It sears right through Will’s sternum. ”It’s not your fault,” he says to her, because he has to. It’s _him._ He leans down to press his lips on her forehead. It feels… not like before. ”Just… go back to sleep.”

+

It’s hasn’t worked, not even once.

Not after he came back.

Then they stop trying and Will’s relieved.

+

Tom’s letters arrive regularly, and they are so very much like him. He tells Will about his days, about Joe, his Mum, the town, his carvings and sketches. He asks about Will’s family, did his daughters like the carvings? Has Lottie learnt to read already? What’s Will doing, is he all right?

And Will responds.

+

Until two weeks later, Tom writes him that he’ll be visiting London soon to run some errands.

So Will tells Mary: ”He’ll be here in two weeks. Tom. Would it be all right if – if he stayed here for couple of nights?”

Mary’s in the middle of folding clean laundry and the movement of her hands slows. ”I suppose so,” she says finally after considering it. ”Of course.”

Will releases a breath he doesn’t realize he’s been holding.

Doesn’t realize he’s been clutching Tom’s letter in his fingers until the pages are creased.

He goes to write back, to offer his house.

_Till we see again._

+

The next few weeks are slow torture, and Will busies himself by starting a part-time job in a nearby bookshop. It’s less questions, less greedy searching eyes looking for old, _old_ wounds, possible amputations, visible cracks from the war.

It’s quiet work, smells of old books and tea leaves. Mrs. Hooper is a kind woman, who has no time for gossip, and Will is more than grateful for that.

The girls are curious to meet his friend who made their fox figurines that have played a big part in their fairytale games.

Mary is tense. Nervous. Together they clean the guest room, change the sheets while the worried furrows on her forehead and cast even deeper shadows.

”Did he – tell you what business he has here?” she asks, smoothing the covers with her palm.

”No. Not really. He’s doing something for his brother.”

She pauses. ”Did he… did he ask you?”

Will’s fingers pause mid-tuck on the cover’s corners before resuming. ”No. I offered.”

”Oh.”

It’s so quiet in the guest room that Will can hear how dry her mouth is. ”What’s he like?” she finally asks. She asked once, before. Who he was.

_When Tom was still dead._

But now?

It’s careful mapping out, beyond polite inquiries. _It’s almost too late to ask._

Tom Blake is…

_Good. Kind. Stubborn. Playful. Reckless. Soft. Funny. Talkative. Creative. So impossibly good._

”He’s one of the best people I’ve ever known,” Will settles to say, so honest he thinks he could bleed with it. It’s not all, not even nearly; it’s a myriad of all little puzzle pieces, quirks, stories, colours, sounds and smiles that makes him _Tom._

Vibrant, brilliant energy even when he’s just sitting down, carving or sketching. _Just existing._

Mary’s spine snaps back up, and she stares at him. For a second, it looks like her chest has been locked to stone.

”Oh,” she says faintly. ”I… I see.” She straightens herself and there’s something in the vivid green of her eyes. Something that Will doesn’t know how to decipher.

The silence drags on. Deepening. _Rattling._

She can’t say ’I’ll look forward meeting him’ without it all sounding false. She can’t say any normal pleasantries without any of it sounding false.

So she just doesn’t say anything.

+

When Tom comes to London, it’s a chilly day.

The smog has painted the city in a gray-yellow haze, too bright for eyes, white and burning, and Will’s nervous.

Well, not quite, but it pounds in his head: _Tom’s going to be here._

He distracts himself by tidying around, to keep his hands busy.

_(flies crawl on his skin again, mary keeps an eye on him)_

Will’s half-way sorting his work desk when he hears a knock on the front door.

 _It’s him._ His pulse jumps on his throat, just under the skin, _thump-thump._ He goes down the stairs. Passes Mary on the way to the hall.

Opens the door.

It’s Tom.

Tom, who looks both like a deer caught in the headlights and excited.

The white light streams behind him, making his outlines shimmer. First thing Will notices is that Tom’s hair’s not the usual mess; he’s combed it to the side, and secondly Will realizes Tom’s wearing a neatly pressed waistcoat and trousers.

Tom grins. Dimples grow around that curve of his lips, and his skin has turned into a wonderful shade of pink that might be from the cold outside.

”Hi, Scho,” Tom greets, the corners of eyes crinkling again and Will’s got difficulty breathing.

”Hello,” Will somehow manages to reply, his whole chest cavity growing lighter with each breath. Pure oxygen floods into his brain.

”What? I got the day right, yeah?” Tom’s grin falters. ”Wait. Oh fuck, did you even know I was comin’ today?”

Will laughs, a low, amused rumble, his nerves dissolving. ”I did. I replied to that.”

”Oh, yeah, you did, sure, but no way am I trustin’ mail again,” Tom says easily. ”Should probably nail it to your front door.”

”Please don’t.”

That space is there again between them and the need to close it burns underneath. Tom looks at Will, who understands the silent question and nods.

Tom doesn’t hesitate.

He wraps his arms around Will and gives him a quick embrace – quick, but firm. _Tight._ He feels heavy, solid in Will’s arms, the heat soaking into his body. The scent of Tom’s soap and lavender greet Will again, taking him back to the Blake house, to the orchard.

_(the colours, the laughter, the sweet taste of apple cider and honey)_

Will shudders, exhaling and relaxes into the touch.

”Can’t hug my mate, now can I?” Tom asks, his eyes twinkling and pulls back.

”If you don’t make us to fall over in mud.”

”Pfft. _Arse._ A bit of faith’d be nice.”

But Tom’s beaming, so it’s all right. Will lets him inside the house and that’s when he notices Tom has a basket with him. A pretty, handwoven wood basket, covered with a simple cloth.

Before he can ask what it is, Mary steps into the hallway and suddenly, Will’s heart spasms hot and painful.

Mary’s eyes land on Tom, and Tom sees her. They both stop. It’s a strange situation; they just look at each other, as if uncertain.

Then Tom smiles and gives Mary his hand. ”You’re Mrs. Schofield, yeah?” His Adam’s apple bobs. ”It’s nice to meet you, ma’am. Scho’s a reserved bloke, can’t always get a word outta him, but I’m happy to finally meet you.”

Mary struggles to keep her composure as well, she’s trembling when she takes Tom’s hand.

”Likewise, Mr. Blake,” she says, her voice a little uneven. ”I’m sorry it has taken this long.”

Tom’s eyes widen. ”Yeah, I – I mean - ” Flushing, he trails off, helpless and tries again: ”Well, it all ended well, didn’t it? That reminds me – this is for you.”

He hands her the basket, and Mary blinks, surprised.

”What is this?”

Tom takes the cloth off and Will glances over his shoulder to see several jam jars, with ribbons wound nicely around them, a tin box of biscuits and a bottle of Mrs. Blake’s cider.

Tom’s cheeks grow hotter. ”S’just… stuff from our place,” he says, awkward. ”That’s our own jam – well, my Mum made it, I helped – well, me and Joe, that’s my brother – and that’s her cider. Apple. Scho tried it last time and it was good, wasn’t it?”

”It was,” Will agrees, watching the scene intently.

”’n the biscuits – well, they’re pretty good with tea – jus’… something from me. As a thanks. For lettin’ me stay here, I know I sorta… crashed here.”

Mary stares at the basket. At the red ribbons and bows around the jars, carefully tied into bows. Her nostrils flare, her jaw working.

”It’s all right, Mr. Blake,” she finally says and looks up. ”It’s – this is wonderful. Very thoughtful of you, thank you.”

Tom’s skin glows pink. ”Oh! Well, uh, I’m glad you like it. And call me Tom, please?”

She lifts her chin to meet his eyes over the basket. ”Then call me Mary.”

Tom bows his head, shy. ”All right.” From this angle, Will can see Tom trying to swallow.

”Girls! Come here to say hello to Papa’s friend,” Mary shouts, and soon, they pad into the hallway. They’re in their pretty dresses and Mary’s braided their hair.

They peek at Tom curiously.

Tom makes a sound like he’s been punched in the gut but when Will looks at him in alarm, he’s smiling.

It’s a strange smile; choked, wavering would be the closest, but then it melts into something very gentle and sweet. Tom kneels in front of the girls.

”Hey there,” he says softly.

Sophie eyes him. ”Did you make our foxes?”

”That’s me. Did you like them?”

”I named mine Reynard,” Sophie informs him.

”Mine’s Reg!”

”Really? Those are some proper fittin’ names for ’em, I’m glad they got a good home with you,” Tom says, completely serious. ”You’re Sophie, right?”

Will’s oldest blinks. ”How did you know?”

”Y’know, I’m a wizard,” Tom says and wiggles his fingers at them, which Will assumes is supposed to mean magic.

”You’re not!”

”What? Yeah I am!”

”Do you know my name?” Lottie asks, tugging Tom’s sleeve.

”’Course I do! You’re lil’ miss Lottie, right?”

Lottie squeals in delight. ”It’s me!”

Then Tom snaps his fingers and pulls a coin behind Sophie’s ear. The girls gawk at him, slack-jawed.

”Tadaa! How’d that end up there, huh?” Tom grins, all mischief and joy. Will’s lungs stutter. He can’t believe what he’s seeing. _He can’t._ Mary stares at them as well, and now her eyes are glazed.

Then, she snaps out of it, takes the basket and leaves the hallway. Tom continues to entertain the girls with few simple coin tricks and each time, the girls explode into amazed giggles and applauses.

”Now, girls, we have to let Tom breathe,” Will murmurs to the children, finding his voice at last. ”He’s had a long journey behind him, and he’s tired.”

”Nap time!” Lottie says, her little face beaming like sunshine.

Tom laughs and pats her head. ”You know what, that’s a great idea, I’ll have to do that later. Here, you two can have these. Lucky pennies, yeah?”

”Ooh!”

”What do we say, girls?” Will asks, the corner of his lip twitching into a smile.

”Thank you!” they chorus and giggling, they retreat back into their room.

Then it’s just Will and Tom.

”They’re really lovely, Scho,” Tom says to him, and the expression on his face is bare, like something’s both hurting him and bringing him happiness. His breathing hitches. ”All of ’em.”

Will nods. ”They are,” he murmurs and searches Tom’s gaze again. It’s comforting, blue and familiar. ”That basket was… it was very good.”

”Yeah, well… can’t show up empty-handed, can I? That’d be rude.”

”Now you worry about that?”

”Oi, c’mon, I worry about plenty.”

”Mmh-hmm. Did your trip go well?”

”Uh huh. Slowed down to a stop about twenty minutes after we left, but there was this ol’ bloke sittin’ with me – think he was from Brighton? We talked ’bout horses. He had some really dirty jokes.”

Will shakes his head inwardly, his fondness saturating through. Of course Tom found someone to talk to.

”Is your Mum all right?”

”Oh yeah, she went back to Helen’s yesterday, busy with the wood work at the attic. Me and Joe helped her load the truck – d’you know how bloody heavy oak is? Weighs like a _ton._ Think I almost broke all my fingers.”

”Did you?”

”No, but it was bloody close. Never realized how far it was from the backyard to the garage.”

Will snorts. ”And Joe?”

Tom bites his lip. ”He’s good.” He pauses. ”Actually that’s why I’m here. I mean, sorta. I’m scoutin’ some… apartments.” Embarrassed, he shifts his weight to another leg and waits for Will’s reaction.

”You’re moving here?” Will asks, stunned.

”Well, nothin’ decided yet, is it, haven’t even seen anything yet, much less written any bloody leases, now have we?” Tom teases him, good-natured and adjusts his lapels. ”I’m just… y’know… scouting. Doin’ some ground work.”

”Anything specific you’re looking for?”

”Dunno, available for starters?”

”Funny.”

Tom looks rather pleased with himself. ”I’m hilarious.”

_Yes, you are._

+

Will comes quickly to a conclusion that it’s strange, having Tom in his house. Not in an unpleasant way, not at all, it’s just… jarring. The contrast, the difference.

Will’s so used to the walls suffocating him from both sides, the silence pressing into his ribs, but now Tom’s just bustling around, talking and joking and it’s _wonderful._

It strips Will open, allows air into his whole body and he just… allows himself to enjoy it.

Tom talks about everything, about the village, Joe, Maggie, the orchard, his train trip, Myrtle, about this one bastard who tried to steal his bike and whom he had to tackle.

It’s lively, resonant, vibrant and _effortless_ in that genuine, sincere way that only Tom can do _. With each heart beat, with each giggle._ Life pulses through every room like ripe fruit. _Bleeds colour into the wallpaper._

Even though Will’s quite focused on Tom’s presence, he sees his daughters peeking around the corner at Tom, and when Will catches their eye, he gives them a firm look, they giggle and run upstairs.

In turn, Will tells Tom about his job, and Tom thinks it’s funny, but his expression remains affectionate.

”You couldn’t have found a better job for yourself, Scho, even if you bloody tried.”

Will tilts his head, not offended in the slightest. ”That’s fair.”

”Or maybe in those posh university classes?”

”No, I don’t think so. Too many pricks there.”

Tom howls with laughter, and Will is satisfied.

+

When Mary calls them for dinner, Will feels the all too familiar anxiety creeping in. Would it be awkward? Uncomfortable? _Silent?_

But it turns out he doesn’t have to worry, the girls are too excited about their new guest to allow any pauses. Sophie assaults Tom with several questions about the farm house like only a five year old is able to; do they have horses, oh, they have a dog, what kind of a dog, we don’t have a dog, does she have puppies -

And Tom replies easily and seriously to each and every question they have.

Will helps to cut Lottie’s potatoes into smaller pieces when he hears Mary ask: ”So how did you two meet?”

Tom doesn’t even hesitate to reply. ”Oh, we both served in the 8th. I joined in the late ’16? October? Or maybe it was November, I’m not sure. Scho here – he was quiet and grumpy and takin’ naps by the trees and I nearly tripped over him the first time…”

”You talked so much you wore me down,” Will replies mildly without looking up from Lottie’s plate.

Tom flashes a toothy grin across the table. ”Oi now, shut up, like you could have resisted me.”

”It was easier to try to ignore you.”

Tom laughs; the way it comes from the deepest corners of his chest. ”You can’t.”

Will pauses, not to resist his smile, not to ignore him. He glances at Tom, amused. ”No, I can’t.”

”One time Scho was seriously considering to ditch me – yeah, you were, don’t look at me like that. I made a joke about this one Lieutenant – to be fair, he was a complete bas – uh, idiot and he happened to overhear me. Made us dig through the worst mud I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Mary frowns. ”Mud?”

”For latrines.”

”Yeah! As a punishment.” Tom throws a playfully accusing pout at Will. ”You didn’t talk to me all day, either.”

”Was too busy shovelling mud,” Will replies with a hum.

”Yeah, s’a wonder you didn’t just throw any of that at me, I kinda would’ve deserved it, honestly.”

Will doesn’t hide his smile.

+

Mary sees it.

+

After dinner, they wash the dishes, the girls go upstairs to play and Will asks if Tom would like to go for a walk.

”Or a pub,” Will says as an after-thought, and Tom raises an eyebrow.

”Oh, like I’m gonna refuse, no chance.”

Mary’s expression grows rigid in surprise. ”You’re going to a pub?” she repeats, incredulous.

”Just for a pint,” Will promises to her.

”Not gonna let him get sloshed,” Tom pipes up. ”Promise.”

Will rolls his eyes. ”You have no room to talk.”

”Oi, I have plenty! What are you talkin’ about?”

Will remembers that one time in the late 1916 when they’d gotten their hands on some cheap whiskey. He remembers the taste of it burning his tongue, and Tom’s head lolling as he grimaced, his skin splotched scarlet.

”No singing shanties this time,” he teases and Tom flushes.

”C’mon, Scho, come off it, that’s mean – you promised not to bring that up!”

” _William,”_ Mary says, and they both turn towards her. ”Don’t stay up late?”

Will shakes his head. That much he thinks he can promise.

+

Will knows a rather quiet pub down the street. It’s got a smoky atmosphere, dark wooden surfaces, green décoir and it smells of cigarettes, alcohol and toast.

There are only a few patrons in, some are playing cards near the radio and couple people are reading newspapers. Will and Tom order pints and retreat into the far back corner.

Tom turns the pint in his fingers and Will guesses there’s something on his mind.

”Your family’s really amazing, Scho,” he says softly. ”I know I said that already but… yeah, figured I should just say it again.”

There’s that vulnerability again; fragile, _pained._ ”Your wife seemed – she - ” Tom takes a breath and tries again. ”She seems really nice.”

Will struggles to find his voice. ”She is.” Because she is, the one he married five years ago when things were still clear-cut and simple and she’s suffered just as much and now he can’t -

Tom’s fingers twitch around the pint. ”I can see why it was difficult to come back,” he whispers. ”On leave. I get it.”

”Tom - ”

”’Cause it’d break you to pieces. I get it. And I’m sorry for pokin’, before. I run my mouth, you know that.”

”I do,” Will says with fond wryness, allowing the tenseness of the conversation to abate into that familiar easiness.

Tom hears it too, relaxes and grins sheepishly. ”Stop it, you wanker, I’m trying to be honest here.”

”You are,” Will says, gentle. ”And I know. I appreciate it. I’m glad you came here and met them.”

”Really?”

A fist squeezes Will’s heart at Tom’s hopeful tone. ”Yes. You made their day with that magic trick.”

Tom snickers. ”It was bloody awful.”

”They don’t have to know that,” Will replies, amused.

”Well, I had to – didn’t want them to think ’bloody hell, this bloke’s rubbish, ain’t he’.”

Will’s eyebrows shoot up. He’s ashamed to realize he hadn’t noticed just how nervous Tom had been about this as well.

”Tom - ”

Pink flush rises towards Tom’s hairline. ”Yeah, well. They’re _your_ kids so… I wanted to make a good impression,” he mumbles, looking away flustered.

”You would’ve made that even without the trick,” Will says, feeling a violent surge flood through him; helpless affection that’s dangerously close to adoration.

”But it helped, yeah?”

”I’m not arguing against that.”

Tom beams.

Meanwhile the pub gets more crowded. It’s evening already and people gather by the counter, the chatter gets louder over the music.

Will tells Tom about this poetry book he found at work – with worn covers and thin pages, mix of poems and sonnets. Tom throws him a playful challenge to recite some of it. ” _Ten bob!_ C’mon, Scho, I have ten bob now!”

”I’m still not taking that.”

Tom laughs. ” ’ _Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day’?”_ he teases. ”Like that? Oh yeah, I know stuff.”

Will’s pulse stutters. _God._

”Read few books meanwhile, then?” he rasps and takes a sip of his ale to mask his sudden shyness.

”Wha, you can’t be the only one recitin’ romance?” Tom teases him back and runs fingers through his hair, now mussed around the temple.

_Has he - ?_

Will mulls that in his head. ”Have you got someone…?” he asks slowly _,_ coldness drenching him.

_You haven’t even asked him anything about that, you useless fucking idiot, what kind of a friend are you?_

Hesitantly Will meets Tom’s eyes across the table; the amber glow from the lamps in the pub painting him so very soft.

”No,” Tom says quietly, tilting his head, the corner of his lips turning up and rotates the pint again on the table. ”No – no girls for me. Not – I don’t really - ”

_I can’t._

”It’s all right,” Will says, desperate to comfort him, keeping his voice steady. ”You don’t have to anything you don’t want to. Not anymore.” _Not ever again. You did enough. You were more than enough._

Tom’s smile wavers and he reaches to rub his face with his hand. ”Geez, Scho,” he laughs weakly. ”Your favourite verse? C’mon, humor me?”

Will doesn’t have to think about it, not really. Easy to go with the river’s flow.

” _So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee.”_

”All right, bit of a show-off,” Tom says back, smiling.

”Shut up. It’s the same sonnet.”

The easiness returns, effortless as a breath of fresh air and they take swigs of their ale and the conversation falls back to books, drawings and the rental apartments.

When they have finished their drinks, Tom says he has to go to the loo for a moment and makes his way to the back of the pub. Will leans his back against the wall, staring at the dark wooden ceiling.

It’s been a long day, but he wouldn’t have it in any other way. The squeezing pressure between his brows has lessened.

He’s missed Tom.

 _God,_ there’s still a part of him that’s terrified that this has been a dream. That Tom still died in his arms at that farmhouse. _Choking, crying in fear and agony,_ and Will didn’t know what to say to him then, to make his suffering even slightly more bearable, but what can you tell to a _dying man_ \- _?_

Now he’s here, grinning at Will, teasing him with such good-natured humor, even when he sometimes looks at Will like he’s in pain and Will doesn’t understand, it hurts to see and he doesn’t know _why -_

” - il’ _prick,_ _watch where yer_ _FUCKIN’ GOIN’!”_

Alarmed, Will’s head snaps up.

He has just enough time to catch a glimpse of Tom’s head before he disappears behind a crowd of people gathered around the tables, scuffling, agitated _shouts-_

_No._

Instantly Will jumps to his feet and rushes toward the group, pushing his way through the elbows and stitched coats – _move move move -_

\- and Tom’s lying on the ground as a heap, clutching at his nose, blood gushing out between his fingers. Ice-cold horror washes through Will’s sternum, squeezing his breathing – _gurgling, ’am i dying’ -_ but Tom on the ground curses and groans in muffled pain.

” - you think you can just show up and shove, spillin’ my fuckin’ drink like that?” a large, scarred man spits at Tom and Will’s protective instincts gear up.

”Let _go - ”_ he snaps but then two of other patrons pull the man back from Tom.

” - Ethan, fucking stop it, what’s _wrong_ with you - ”

” - my fucking _brandy - !”_

Will hurries to Tom’s side. ”Tom - ”

”It was an accident,” Tom grunts, muffled. ”Fuckin’ _Christ -_ ”

”Ethan, that’s enough, you’ve had enough,” the bartender says coldly in front of the shelves.

”This bastard shoved me - !”

”Well, what do you reckon, your bastard head’s too big, what do you think he can miss you, the poor bloke!” one of his friends snorts and grimaces at Will, apologetic. ”Jesus, do you need help?”

”No,” Will says curtly, focused on helping Tom. ”Let me see. Tom. Hands off. Let me _see.”_

Tom doesn’t. He shifts, gets on his shaky feet and Will keeps his hand firmly on his shoulder. ”It was an accident,” Tom grunts to the men. ”Sorry.”

”No, Ethan’s just bloody hot-headed, the absolute fuckwit,” his friend snorts, glaring at the man in question with utter disappointment and disdain. ”Had to make a scene, did ya. Sorry, mates. Sure you don’t need help?”

”No, I got him,” Will grunts darkly and steers Tom outside to the cool night air. ”Do you need to stop? We can go home, I’ll take a look at - ”

Tom winces, hisses between his teeth. ”Yeah, let’s – let’s just go, please?”

+

It takes five minutes to get back to the house. Will fumbles with the keys, cursing under his breath and drags Tom into the bathroom and forces him to sit on the toilet’s closed lid.

”Let me look, Tom,” he murmurs, grasping at Tom’s wrist and gently pulling his hand away from his face.

Tom lifts his head, squinting in the bright bathroom light and hot nausea rises to Will’s mouth. _Jesus._

Tom’s pale under the red blood that’s splattered on his nose, on his lips, he’s trembling with adrenaline and nerves and stares up at Will.

Then, he grins weakly. ”Still lookin’ pretty, Scho?”

”You’re unbelievable. Are you dizzy?”

”No, I’m fine, m’fine.”

”You’re _not_ fine. Wait, let me get - ”

Will rummages through the cabinet for bandages, finds them and returns to Tom. Carefully he tilts Tom’s head so he can see better and presses more bandages gently on Tom’s nose. Tom shivers and sucks another hiss of pain between his teeth.

” _Shite,_ that stings...”

”Don’t move,” Will murmurs, his thumb brushing on Tom’s jawline. ”I’m going to look at your nose now.”

Keeping his movements slow Will smooths Tom’s nose over with his fingers as tenderly as he can. Running the calloused pads on the ridge of it. Tom stills instantly under him, not even breathing. _Trembling._

”I don’t think it’s broken,” Will says quietly. It sounds almost too loud, a rasping whisper in the stillness of the bathroom.

Tom swallows. ”Well, that’s nice. Wouldn’t want my nose on my cheek, to be honest.”

Despite the lightness of his words, Tom’s eyes are half-lidded, darkened and _feverish_ as he tracks Will in front of him. Will cradles Tom’s head and moves his thumb to wipe a smudge of blood on Tom’s cupid’s bow. Down to his lip.

He can feel more than hear Tom’s breathing hitch. Can feel Tom’s pulse. His fingers curl under Tom’s jaw, press into that soft, warm skin, marvelling how alive Tom is, so beautiful, _so free and breathing life and air and joy_.

It’s the way Tom’s eyelids close, the way his long dark eyelashes flutter on the apples of his cheekbones, gorgeous and _so utterly like Tom_ that it steals Will’s breath away.

_Alive, smiling, stubborn, funny, flawed Tom._

”Are you all right?” Will asks, his voice rough.

Tom breathes: ” _Yes.”_

Fierce protectiveness raises it’s head in him again. _God, what Will wouldn’t do for him._

”What’s going on?” a sleepy voice asks from the doorway and Tom nearly falls off the toilet lid with a squeak.

Mary stands in the hallway, wearing a heavy dressing gown, her hair falling down on her shoulders. She blinks at the bathroom light as if she’s just woken up. Then she realizes what she’s looking at and pales.

”God, is that _blood?”_ she asks, looking both startled and disturbed. ”What happened?”

”A scuffle at the pub,” Will answers without turning to look, now once again focused on his task. ”Tom, don’t lean back.”

” _A scuffle?”_

”A misunderstanding.”

”My fault,” Tom rushes to say. ”I sort of… bumped into this bloke and – ow, _Scho –_ and made ’im spill his drink. He wasn’t too happy ’bout that.”

”So he _punched_ you?”

”Yep. The bastard. Scho – seriously...”

”Do you need help?” Mary asks biting her lip, hovering still on the doorstep.

”No need, I got it.” Will winces at his own tone and replies softly: ”Thank you. Sorry for waking you… this won’t take long, we’ll be fine.”

She watches them. Will’s suddenly aware that his palm is still resting on Tom’s shoulder, keeping him still. Mary’s hand grips the door frame. ”Will you?” she asks at last, her voice faltering.

”It’s not the worst shite Scho’s fished me from,” Tom pipes up, sounding thick. ”’least it’s not a trip wire now.”

For a moment, she just watches them again, her head tilted to the side. ”Come get me if you need help,” she says at last.

”I got it,” Will replies. ”Go back to sleep, we’ll be all right.”

Mary glances at them one last time before she leaves the doorstep and they hear her footsteps fade when she goes upstairs.

Tom exhales wetly, his body going almost limp on the toilet lid. Will’s hand slips to cradle Tom’s head. The skin on his nape feels sweaty, hot.

”Look at me?” Will asks, his voice has deepened an octave.

Tom takes a breath and looks up. There’s always been trust between them – now, it’s almost tangible between them. Comfort in that gaze. No expectations, no judgement.

”We need to put something cold on your nose,” Will murmurs finally.

”Oh yeah, it’ll swell, don’t it. Jesus.” Tom grimaces. ”Remember Hayward? His face was like a pound of minced meat.”

”He was just clumsy.”

”Yeah! My point exactly! Don’t really fancy lookin’ like that.”

”You won’t, chin up.”

”Better not or it’ll end up on my forehead or something.”

Will laughs. Tom looks smugly pleased with himself. They shuffle to the kitchen, Will flicks the lights on and with a groan, Tom sits by the table, still holding the bandages on his nose.

Will finds him a cold rag. It’s not the best, but it’ll do. ”Move your hand,” he murmurs. Tom does and Will sets the rag on his nose. Tom breathes deeply and leans into the touch.

”Feels better.”

”Good. Want whiskey?”

”You know what? I’ve had one hell of a night, yeah, I could go for some.”

Humming in agreement, Will pours whiskey in little shot glasses he’s kept in the furthest corner of the cabinet and hands one to Tom.

”What’re we toastin’?” Tom asks, his eyes shining _._

Will considers. There are be many reasons he could offer. _Life. Friendship. Love._

Instead, he murmurs: ”To us.”

”I can drink to that,” Tom says just as quietly. ”To makin’ it here, despite all the shite, yeah?”

”Yeah.”

They share a small, private smile and gently knock their glasses together.

_To us making it._

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, this got long. How did it get there? :D  
> Also it's 1:43 am right now in Finland and it's been a long week, so there might be grammar mistakes, pls share if you see any!  
> Anyway, thank you so much again for all the amazingly kind and sweet comments you guys have left me? You are the best! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, be safe and drink lots of water!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tom experiences life at the Schofield house.

That night Will doesn’t dream of the farm house.

His vision fills of pale cherry blossoms, wooden foxes with knowing eyes, and the lingering taste of apple cider wells in his mouth and it’s enough to drown blood under his tongue.

It’s quiet in his dream. Not peaceful because his dreams often are not, but it is quiet.

Until it isn’t.

First Will doesn’t understand what he’s hearing. It fractures his dreamscape. Cracks it open. His first irrational thought is that it’s a siren. Ear-piercing, red, panicked siren that he associates with the echoes in the trenches.

Then he realizes it’s _terrified._

_That it’s a human sound._

Then lastly he realizes it’s Tom.

 _Tom’s crying._ The comprehension slaps him brutally across the face.

Will’s eyes snap wide open. The dream shatters around him, crumbles in dusty petals and he gasps in the darkness -

\- but the crying doesn’t stop.

_Tom._

Instantly Will throws the blankets off and races out of the room, bursts into the guest room and finds Tom, his back arched in the sheets, his ghostly white face contorted with _agony._ By the time he reaches Tom’s bedside, Tom’s shallow breathing has strangled into wracking sobs _._

”Tom, Tom - ” he says, kneeling by the bed, staring anxiously at Tom’s tear-streaked face. He reaches – and touches gently Tom’s shoulder. ”Tom – you’re having a nightmare.”

Tom jolts, drawing a horrible, rasping inhale like he’s drowning, his eyes wide and terrified.

”I’m - ” he gasps, glancing around panicked. ”Am I hit - ?”

Will’s blood turns to ice for a second. He knows exactly what Tom means. God, of course he does. He knows that feeling intimately well.

”No, you’re not,” he murmurs in a steady, gentle voice. ”It’s not blood. You’re safe, you’re in London. You’re not there.”

A pause.

”Scho?” Tom’s voice is fragile, wet.

”It’s me. You’re in my home,” Will responds, rubbing comforting circles on Tom’s bicep and slowly, _slowly_ Tom’s grip on the sheets grow slack. He slumps back on the bed.

”Oh, thank God,” he whispers, squeezes his eyes shut, his lips trembling. He sucks shallow lungfuls of air through his nose like he’s trying desperately not to cry. ”Did – did I wake up the girls – your kids? Did I scare them- ?”

”No,” Will says firmly and takes Tom’s hand into his own, and Tom instantly grips back, intertwining their fingers together. ”You didn’t. It’s all right. Breathe. You need to breathe.”

Tom’s whole body shakes as he tries to get his lungs to work. ”I – I can’t - ”

”You can,” Will says as calmly as he can. ”Breathe in. _In,_ Tom. Good. Follow my lead. Like that. And out. With your diaphragm. Good. Again? In. And out.”

It goes on like that, in the darkness of the guest room.

Will’s leaning near him, letting Tom grip his hand like a life line and murmuring him through it.

_Breathe. In. Out. In. Out._

Eventually Tom’s breathing slows down and becomes a lazy, raspy drag in his throat. He blinks tears from his lashes. Moonlight streams between the curtains, catches on the wet tracks on his cheeks.

”I’m sorry,” he whispers hoarsely, searching Will’s gaze. ”S’just – a new place, didn’t remember where I was - ”

”No, it’s all right - ”

”...sorry I woke you, Scho...”

”You didn’t.”

”You’re a shite liar,” Tom grins through his tears and now his tremors have subsided. ”Absolute bollocks.”

”I’ll take it.”

Absently Will rubs his thumb across Tom’s knuckles and watches his face. Slowly he can see horror and terror drain and make way into exhaustion. With a long exhale, Tom closes his eyes.

”...you sure I didn’t wake the girls?”

Will listens to the house. He can’t hear anything. Not even a creak. ”I don’t think so. They would sleep through a storm.”

”...sorry.”

”Don’t apologize. It’s no different than it was back at your house.”

”...still feels like shit.”

”...I know.”

Tom’s eyes flutter open, again to search for Will’s in the darkness. ”You still have ’em?”

Will nods. ”Never really stopped.”

”...aren’t we a bloody lucky bunch, ain’t we.”

”Mmh.”

After a beat, Tom says quietly: ”You don’t have to stay. I’m all right now.”

Will raises an eyebrow at him, and Tom seems to catch that. ”Oh, come _on,_ Scho, you – you can’t stay here. I’ll – I dunno, I’ll probably – jus’– read or something? I’ll fall back asleep eventually, don’t worry.”

 _I always worry,_ pops in Will’s head before he can stop the thought. And then he doesn’t.

He hesitates. ”Are you sure?”

He can see Tom’s dimples blooming in sight, even with the faint outlines. ”...yeah. I’m all right,” he says softly. _He is alive and breathing and real._ The sheets are clean, no red blood soaking through it. _He’s alive._

Tom pauses, tilting his head on the pillow to search Will’s gaze. ”...thank you.”

”You’re welcome.” The phrase is almost insufficient to describe how Will feels. Too polite, too empty. He feels torn, leaving Tom but logically he knows there’s not much else he can do even if the cells in his body pulls at him to stay with Tom and make sure he’s all right.

So Will just squeezes Tom’s hand one last time, quietly bids him good night and goes back to the bedroom.

He finds Mary, sitting on the edge of the bed, in deep thought and her head snaps up when she hears him.

”Was he - ?” She cuts herself off, uncertain and voice already tighter.

”A nightmare. He’s all right now.”

Mary chews her lip. ”He has them, too?”

 _Only the dead don’t have nightmares about the war,_ Will thinks, feeling the full weight of that weariness settle back on his spine.

”Yes,” he replies out loud because that’s the short answer and gets under the covers. The lamp on Mary’s night table makes his vision go blurry. ”Were the girls - ?”

”They are asleep. I went to check. ”

”Thank you.”

Silence. Cold wind outside makes the glass panels on the windows rattle. Mary glances at him under the mahogany strands and opens her mouth but then seems to change her mind and shakes her head.

”Good night, William,” she says instead and turns her back on him.

”Good night.”

+

In the early morning, when Tom comes downstairs, he’s flustered. Not obviously so, but it’s noticeable; he shifts around the kitchen, tugging at his waistcoat here and there. He eats less than what Will is used to from him; he sips tea and eats a toast with some marmalade on top.

This time they are both only ones there – it’s still quite early and this is familiar; existing in that space between dawn and night. Mist presses into the windows.

Then Will catches him examining his reflection on the spoon.

”No way – I can’t show up to a landlord lookin’ like this!” Tom groans gesturing at his face with the spoon. Sure, Will sees that the swelling has receded, but the redness has faded into a rather ugly darkened bruise. ”He’ll probably think I’m a bloody troublemaker – no way it’ll go through.”

”It’s a possibility,” Will agrees.

Tom purses his mouth and playfully accuses: ”Oi, what help is that, you’re supposed to be on my side!”

It’s whining, just because he can – for the luxury of it.

Will smiles wryly. ”I can be that _and_ a realist.”

Tom’s ears turn pink and grumbling, he turns to scowl again at his reflection on the spoon. ”Joe’s gonna kill me,” he mutters under his breath. ”Just bloody know it...”

”When are you going there?”

Tom shifts again, uncertain. ”Uh, just after the breakfast, I reckon? He said half past seven. So I’m gonna go poke the ice – at least to go try? I mean, even if my face looks like shite. Can I even smile, what d’you think?”

Will gives him a glance over the table, unable to mask his amusement. ”Your teeth aren’t bad.”

”More worried my face’ll fall off the bloody hinges. That could happen!”

”Your jaw works just fine.” Will tilts his head to examine him again over his breakfast. ”It doesn’t look that bad.”

Tom snorts. ”Fuck me, it must be if you pull diplomacy on me.”

They share a laugh, and some tension dissolves from Tom’s shoulders. He does eat another toast, and Will’s glad to notice it.

”Want me to walk you there?”

Tom looks surprised. ”Don’t you have work today? S’Monday, innit?”

”It’s on the way.”

Warm spots spread on Tom’s cheeks. ”I mean… sure. If ya want? Jus’ don’t want you to be late ’cause of me.”

”I have time. It’s not far.”

”All right… but you can’t yell at me later if we get lost or somethin’.”

”Just bring your map and compass.”

” _Cheeky!_ I heard that!”

Half an hour later when they’re putting on their coats, Mary comes down the stairs, already dressed and planting last bobby pins into her hair.

”Good morning,” she says and they chorus a reply. ”Your – your face seems better than last night,” she says a little tentatively like she’s wondering if she’s allowed to mention such a thing.

Tom lifts his head, blinking, startled. ”O – oh, yeah. Hopefully the landlord agrees,” he says, chuckling weakly.

”Oh. Good luck, I hope it works out.” Mary’s attention moves to Will. The stiff lines around her mouth relax. ”Have a good day at work?” It’s honest. That much he can hear. She means it, he knows.

He nods. ”You, too.”

+

The morning is crisp and chilly. Their breathing puff out white clouds, and the dawn colours the horizon orange and pink. They walk down the street, and when Tom starts fussing with his lapels, Will realizes he’s _nervous._

”It’s not the only apartment available in London,” he says.

”Yeah, I – I know, but _still._ Want this to work,” Tom mumbles. ”Don’t want to mess up.”

”You won’t. It’ll go fine.”

”That your official statement, huh, Scho?” Tom asks, now his nerves easing into a grin.

”It is.” The corner of Will’s mouth twitches into a dry smile. ”We can call it optimism.”

Tom laughs _,_ and pleased satisfaction flows into Will’s veins.

They arrive to the street and stop in front of a building that stands between a post office and a general store. It’s not nearly as worn looking as other alleyways in London, but Tom looks toward the end of it, swallowing.

”Okay,” he says, chewing his lip. ”Here I go. I can do this.”

”Yes, you can,” Will agrees with utmost sincerity, then looks him over, frowns and reaches to tug at Tom’s hair, just a little – the strands are ruffled behind his ear, sticking out like an owl’s feathers. ”There.”

”Oh.” Tom’s cheeks turn red. ”Thanks. Also for – for walkin’ me here. I appreciate it. You didn’t have to.”

His rib cage giving in under all that he feels, Will can just nod, suddenly just as shy. The sensation is strange, long-forgotten but he feels content in letting it wash through him.

”I wanted to,” he murmurs in reply, meaning it with everything he has. ”It’ll go just fine, Tom.”

”Bloody hope so. Don’t fancy goin’ home and get Joe all pissy on me.” Tom turns to Will. ”Well, have a good day at work, yeah?”

Will’s expression softens and he nods. ”See you later.”

_See you back home._

Tom waves him good-bye and heads towards the end of the street.

+

Will goes to work but he finds himself distracted. Mrs. Hooper throws him curious glances behind the shelves, but doesn’t ask.

+

When Will gets home, he’s greeted by the scent of honey and onions and quiet voices nearby, accompanied by clinking of the utensils.

Unsure what to expect, he hangs his coat and peeks in the kitchen.

Mary and Tom stand side by side by the counter; Tom has rolled his sleeves up and he’s peeling some potatoes. Mary cuts tomatoes with the knife’s effective, sharp jerks.

”Hello,” Will calls, a little taken aback by this.

They both turn their heads toward him.

The humid steam in the kitchen has made Tom’s hair curl around the temples and his cheeks look warm red like apples. Mary’s own hair is a thick halo of dark auburn.

”Hi, Scho,” Tom says with a faint smile.

”Welcome back. Would you take out the trash, William? We are nearly done.”

Still stunned, Will does just that.

”How did it go?” he asks Tom when he re-enters the kitchen.

”Uh, good, I hope? I mean, he was an all right bloke, real straight-forward – kinda reminded me of the Captain if he didn’t give a toss – and he did sorta notice my face.”

”Did he ask?”

”Oh yeah, definitely.” Tom huffs out an embarrassed laugh and rubs the back of his neck. ”He was all like ’seen worse scrapes and bruises ’n that, lad, did you punch back’ which I s’pose means it didn’t bother him? Guess he’s just eager to rent the place.”

”Was it worth it?”

”Yeah, reckon so. Big enough for me and Joe, in decent condition, too. Now s’just up to the bloke. Mr. Wilkins.”

”So he hasn’t decided yet?”

”Nah, said it’s gonna about a week till he does. Gotta do pros and cons, don’t he? Got some other candidate hanging about. Said he’s gonna contact me if he picks me.” Tom makes a face. ”We’ll see.”

”More waiting, then.”

”Good thing we’re good at that, yeah? Less scary, this time too. Joe’s gonna be a right _pain_ ’bout it, though.”

Will snorts, shaking his head fondly, the small smile on his mouth curving upwards.

”How was your day, William?” Mary asks, wiping her hands into her apron. Her expression is almost unreadable, but this time, he thinks he can make out curiosity in there.

Will pauses to consider. If he’s completely honest, some of the day is left in a blurry, he’d been worrying about Tom.

”It was all right,” he replies tentatively.

”Yeah?” Tom perks up, now curious as well. ”Read any new poems?”

 _Good lord._ Will has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep the smile from spreading.

”Emily Dickinson today,” he replies mildly as if in passing.

”C’mon, tell me one?” Tom asks, his face all shining and joyful _,_ and _god_ , a tight fist squeezes around that space in Will’s chest, slowly filling with something resembling a whiskey shot.

”You don’t actually want to hear those,” he admonishes Tom with fond amusement.

”Oi, what? ’Course I do! I can never bloody rhyme anythin’ - it always sounds rubbish from me, but you - ” Tom closes suddenly his mouth, his cheeks turning into a vivid shade of scarlet. He turns hastily to look at the stove, his eyes liquid bright and flustered.

Mary regards him carefully, the lines on her figure easing somehow. ”You like poetry?”

”Well, I like _hearing_ it, right” Tom replies, shifting awkwardly. ”I’m more of a – a shanties kinda bloke.”

”Folk songs too, I remember.”

”Oh yeah.” Tom pauses, his eyes widening. ”Wait no, hold on, what the hell, Scho, that doesn’t count, you were _drunk,_ weren’t you, how can you remember that?”

”Not that drunk.”

Though this isn’t the one Tom means, Will does remember one of those times, through the alcohol-burnt haze clinging to his brain, languid and swaying – he remembers Tom, humming a melody in the darkness of the trench.

” _So here’s a health to the company -_

 _\- l_ _et_ _us_ _drink and be merry, all grief to refrain, for we may or might never….”_

_\- all meet here again -_

Back then Tom’s quiet voice seemed private, a comforting hum in the back of Will’s consciousness. For all Tom’s friendly teasing about Will’s poetry and his ability to recite it, it was a wonder to hear this. Will remembers blinking sleepily through that drunken fog, remembers smiling into the felt of his coat lapels.

He’d been warm and for that split second, he had felt safe.

There had been several times – little hums, notes from a chorus, cut off melodies in between of working and waiting - probably not in the way Tom remembers, but that’s the one that stuck with Will.

”Can’t really sing for shite, though,” Tom continues, still embarrassed. Will doesn’t exactly agree with that but he understands and doesn’t comment. Tom seems to sense that, judging by the way he crunches his eyebrows together. He quickly turns his attention to Mary. ”C’mon, how about you? D’you sing?” he asks, obviously desperate to get the attention off himself.

Mary gives him a funny look, apparently aware of this. ”No. I play piano.”

”Oh, really? That’s bloody amazing, innit? Wait, do you have a piano here - ?”

”No, but my parents do. They live nearby so I can… indulge often enough.” The wry turn of her mouth mellows into something resembling wistfulness. Then she shakes it loose. ”Come on, it’s dinner time. Girls! Come down, please! No running in the stairs!”

+

The girls freeze into a halt when they spot Tom.

”What happened to your _face?”_ Sophie squeaks, covering her mouth with her hands.

” _Sophie!”_ Mary hisses, her face colouring in mortification.

”It’s not polite to point out things like that, we talked about this,” Will reminds Sophie sternly.

”Sorry but his _face...”_

”Ah, s’all right, it’s nothing much, promise, I was just a clumsy fool, didn’t look where I was going,” Tom explains sheepishly and kneels in front of them. The girls watch him, their eyes flitting across his face, unashamed and worried.

Lottie reaches to tug his sleeve again. ”It hurt?” she asks in a small voice, peering at the bruises over her doll as if counting them all.

”Nah, not anymore, it’s okay,” Tom hurries to soothe them and with an easy flick of his wrist, a coin appears between his fingers, glinting copper-red in the dim light. ”See? Didn’t even lose my magic or nothin’.”

The girls giggle, worry melting from them and their tiny fingers touch the coin just to make sure it’s real and Tom herds them towards the dinner table.

+

After dinner, Tom retreats outside. The darkness in London is different than it is out on the country; spotted by flickering, oil-rich glow spilling on cobble-stones, all the chatter and the click of heels against the pavement, sounds of creaky motors rattling louder along the crowded alley-ways.

Will’s not worried about him – he’s _not,_ not like he was before – but the nerves crawl through the cracks nonetheless. _The unease._ Gritty, like grains of sand stuck between his teeth.

”He’s on the steps,” Mary says quietly, glancing out of the window as she leafing through some of the pamphlets she got earlier that day. ”Do you think he’ll get cold, sitting there like that?”

Will shoves his tobacco tin into his pocket and follows Tom outside.

The air tastes like November’s frost, almost metallic. Reminds him of dying red autumn leaves glued under the boot. Tom startles when the door opens behind him, his head whips around to look wildly -

”Easy. It’s just me.”

”Blimey, I – sorry.” Tom makes room on the step for Will who settles beside him. Side by side. Their legs bump together, settle into that ease again. The warmth is familiar against the bitter cold. Tom twirls a cigarette in his fingers, still unlit. ”Hey, Scho?”

”Hmm?”

Tom shifts a bit, his teeth worrying on his top lip. ”Dunno if – no, I - ” he trails off again, bows his head down and examines his feet. ”I gotta go back tomorrow, yeah?”

Will nods, breathing deeply through his nose. Of course he knew this beforehand – now the inevitability of it flattens into his guts. It’s been only couple of days, _he knew this,_ but still, he finds himself missing Tom already.

_(that hollow part in him splitting more open with each passing moment)_

”I’ll walk you to the train.”

”You’ve got work tomorrow.”

_That won’t bother me._

When Will looks up again, Tom’s staring at him, like a man barely daring to draw air.

Then after a pause, he halts and asks: ”Can I – can I tell you something? Just this once, and then I’ll – and then we don’t have to talk about it.”

Will stills. ”What is it?” he asks, the nerves now fraying again.

”Remember when I told you that I don’t remember what happened?” Tom asks slowly, nervous now himself, and that raw and sensitive part of Will that he has avoided since that day in April, throbs again into the seam of his heart.

”Yes.”

Tom nods. Will can hear the slight change in his breathing, as if to brace himself.

”Well, I – I do. I mean, not everything, just parts of it.” He looks ahead, his eyes glazed, the dark lashes fluttering. ”You were gentle with me. Even though I was bleeding out. Bloody _d_ _ying._ It had to be so fucking _awful_ to you, Scho, I – I can’t even imagine – but you just – you just took my hand and asked me _anything else_.”

Will remembers that. With such brutal clarity, from the warm, sticky feeling of Tom’s blood under his dirty nails, etched in the life line of his palm, to the violent heaving of Tom’s chest under his hand.

”I did.”

It comes out a raspy whisper.

”I asked you to keep talkin’ to me.”

”I did.”

A shallow, uneven breath huffs out of Tom, the line of his mouth trembling.

”You did. Fuck, you really did.” Tom looks away, wipes his cheek into his own shoulder and Will hears a wobbly sigh. ”...I jus’… wanted you to know. That I remember and how much I appreciate it. Sorry for bringin’ it up again.”

” _No,_ don’t – don’t be.” Will leans against his knees, his pulse pounding in his head. White buzz in his ears. He breathes deeper couple of times. ”Thank you. For telling me.” A car drives by, the metal clattering against the stone. Then it’s quiet again.

Tom, who has witnessed enough of Will’s silences in varying lengths, notices. ”What is it?” he asks with such softness that it’s almost unbearable.

Will’s hesitation only lasts a moment. Honesty is terrifying on it’s own way, but they have never lied to each other.

”I told you about Écoust, didn’t I?”

”Yeah.”

”In the river... I wanted to let go. After everything that had happened. You, the girl, the baby… it was - ” His airways feel clogged, and gravel and dust fill his mouth. ”I – I went down with the river. Holding onto this… loose tree branch. It would’ve been so easy to let go.”

He remembers the lull of the cold water. Icy numbness. The pull of it dragging him further and further along the banks, toward the bottom, under the dark waves.

”You didn’t?” Tom breathes out, his face now paler but he’s completely focused on him.

Will shakes his head. ”No. I saw cherry blossoms. Petals on the river. Drifting around me.” He glances over at Tom and finds him staring back. His eyes are wide, astonished. ”Like snowfall. That’s what you told me before.”

His throat burning with fire, Will exhales.

”It reminded me of you.” White petals clinging into his skin, into his coat, tender little wisps, the scent of river and something sweet. _Then death._ ”So I didn’t let go. I swam to the shore. There were bodies floating there. Men, women. But the cherry blossoms kept clinging onto me.” He swallows. ” _You.”_

_You held me upright._

_You were there with me. With every step of the way._

”Scho – _Will - ”_ Tom’s voice is hoarse and broken.

Will angles his head to the side and gazes back, unhurried. It’s a magnetic pull, helpless need and _longing_ reflecting across that space in between. It’s tangible, gently cradling that open raw wound scraped inside them.

_He understands. This person understands._

Breathless with the realization, reeling, Will nearly shudders. _He knows it._ God, he does. It’s familiar, more intimate than his own skin and scars.

Tom’s still staring at him with his eyes wide, his lips parted and skin painted soft rose. _So goddamn wonderful that Will doesn’t know what to do._

Will wants so badly, it ripples in his body, sweet and warm and _fierce._

Heat gathering under his skin, Will finds the strength to clear his voice, looks down for a brief moment.

”I just wanted you to pass in peace,” he murmurs. ”No matter how much it tore at me. No matter how much I wanted to - ” He has to swallow, the tar-thick pain clawing up again, when he _still remembers._ ”I just… wanted to make it easier for you.”

He sees it then – Tom’s smile is a beautiful, slow-rising thing, even in the dirty oil-yellow splatter of lights. ”You did,” he says, nudging Will with his shoulder. ”Probably gonna spend the rest of my life tryin’ to make it up to you.”

”No, you don’t. You’re alive, it’s - ” _More than enough. More than the rest of us deserved._ ”You don’t owe me a fucking thing, Tom. _None._ I’m glad you told me.”

”Really?”

” _Yes.”_

Breathless.

Tom’s presence radiates warmth; like sun during autumn time, red golden and soft around the edges. Under that, lay scars, stubbornness, rashness, loud noises, music and creativity, bravery, loyalty.

Tom grins, dimples peeking behind the bruises.

And Will thinks: _I love you._

He knows this in his bare-picked bones. In the very core of him. It has taken shape and solidified into pure certainty.

It’s the absolute truth. He loves Tom, with every cell of his being.

It’s not a new thing. Not even remotely. He becomes aware of this as well. It’s not even a surprise, not really. It’s an old thing, comforting in its existence. With that realization, serenity washes into him, like balm on his ravaged wounds.

_He loved him, even in the trenches. For all the flaws and virtues, splinters and smiles._

”So… were you serious? You’re really gonna ditch work tomorrow and walk me to the train?”

”Yes, I am.”

A beat. Then Tom says quietly: _”Jesus.”_

+

They smoke on the steps until it gets too cold.

+

In the evening the girls realize that Tom is leaving on the morning and are reluctant to go to sleep, knowing they wouldn’t be up when Tom left.

Tom does few more tricks, makes a solemn promise to come back to visit – even crossing his heart - and with wobbling lips, the girls go upstairs.

In the morning, Mary says goodbye to Tom. Her complexion is tired and wilted. She smiles and it’s genuine enough, but something strains by the corners. Seems grittier, somehow.

Will isn’t sure if Tom sees it but if he does, he doesn’t show it. Instead he shakes her hand.

”Thanks again for lettin’ me to stay here,” he mumbles and then does something with his body that Will can only describe as _shrinking_ into himself.

Mary meets Tom’s eyes, careful, weighing. ”It was very nice to meet you,” she responds finally.

”Yeah, it – it was.”

Mary considers him briefly before she turns to Will. ”Would you pick up some fish before you come home?”

With a frown, Will nods and then after saying goodbye, he takes Tom to the station.

+

”Keep me updated about the apartment?” Will asks as they move away from other people waiting by the railroad track.

”Oh yeah, ’course. You’ll be the first to know, Scho.” A mischievous, fond glint appears in Tom’s eyes – a glint Will has seen more than a few times before, and he’s relieved to see it now. He had been worried. ”Beware though, you’re probably gonna end up helping us with the movin’ if you go on about like that.”

”Probably,” Will agrees with a shrug and examines the worn clock above them. He finds he wouldn’t mind that, not one bit. ”Don’t drop any furniture on your toes.”

Surprise flashes on Tom’s face. ”Wait, what really?”

”Really.”

”You’re gonna help?”

Will rolls his eyes, not even fighting his smile.

Tom still gapes at him. ”God, you really would, wouldn’t you?” he asks in awe. ”Blimey, you – I dunno what to do with you.”

He sighs out another laugh, unable to help himself, and it’s such a unrestrained sound.

Then Will catches the intent just a split second before Tom moves and lets it happen – Tom drapes his arms around Will to pull him closer into a hug. Squeezes the back of Will’s neck.

His proximity scalds Will in the sweetest way, then melts into contentment – he can feel every rise and fall on Tom’s body, so painfully familiar in the way he settles into Will.

He can smell the outside on Tom’s skin, fading autumn and sunlight and soap. He can feel the slightest trembling on Tom’s body against his own, breathing and alive.

Will reaches to loop his arms around Tom in response, his hand gripping the material on the small of his back.

_To shield. To protect. To his last goddamn breath._

Tom makes a small sound and presses his head against Will’s throat, for one fleeting moment. Just the tip of his cold nose brushing into Will’s skin. Just the smallest contact, yet it makes Will shiver and his lungs heave out a shaky breath.

”Take care of yourself, Scho,” he hears Tom whisper, his hand lingering on Will’s nape. ”It was… this was so bloody marvelous, you have no idea.”

Will turns his head a bit, resists the unbearable urge to press his lips into Tom’s sun-warm hair.

”M’glad you came,” he says instead, voice lowering into a quiet, private rumble.

”...yeah, me, too. Could’ve gone without the punching, to be honest but… the other stuff, that was… that was bloody great.”

”Mm. Say hello to your mother and Joe for me.”

”I will. You’ll write me again, yeah?”

”Soon, I promise.”

They part, reluctance dragging their limbs from each other, their eyes not moving to the side, not even an inch. Not missing one second. Just blue against blue.

_Trust._

_(longing.)_

”See you,” Tom breathes out, barely moving lips, another huff of air between them. His mouth opens, lips part and he looks like he would like to say something but then the intent dies under the screech of the arriving train.

”Be careful,” Will murmurs.

Tom grins, wavering this time as well, and gives him a familiar two-fingered salute. ”Always am. Till next time, Scho.” And then Will watches him climb on the train.

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God this chapter gave me gray hair, I re-wrote so many parts ugh  
> I'm still overwhelmed and so grateful for all the amazingly sweet and kind comments I've gotten? Seriously you have no idea how much they have made me smile and tear up, they are always such a joy to read and I'm so sorry for not replying, it's been very busy few weeks. I love you all, thank you for sticking so far with me on this ride! <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tom and Joe move and it’s calm before the storm.

A week later, Will receives a letter from Tom. He manages to decipher from Tom’s handwriting – that gets increasingly more messy the longer the letter goes on – that he and Joe have been chosen for the apartment.

A week after that, they move to London.

+

’ _figured I’d save your toes, we’ll handle the moving – and if I break my hands or my neck_ _because I’ll fall down the stairs_ _or something_ _ **then**_ _I’ll come get you so beware’_

+

When he tells Mary, she considers it in silence and then just says _’oh’._

”That’s wonderful,” she says and then asks Will if he would like to take the girls and her to the park.

It sounds close to begging and Will’s guts churn. He’s not sure what’s changed, he doesn’t know what it _means -_ but it itches underneath his skin.

+

The walls are gray again, the colour drains and peels from the corners, and all of it presses flatly into his sides.

_A stranger’s place._

+

Dinners are stifling. The clink of utensils sound like crashes, like bullets hitting on porcelain.

Platitudes. Empty, forced questions that make screams swell in Will’s throat, it all tastes like vinegar and salt – and all he feels is the haunting sense of everything being wrong and stretching, _stretching_ toward a breaking point.

+

In bed, she turns her back to him, her night gown wrinkled around the shoulder blades.

+

Tom shows up to his doorstep couple of days later, his hair tousled in the wind, his mouth turned into a wide joyful grin that shows his teeth. A bit uneven, slightly crooked, but still endearing. In that autumn afternoon, his eyes are the colour of evening sky.

”Hi, Scho!” he greets and slings an arm around Will’s shoulders.

”You’re now a proper Londoner, aren’t you,” Will teases him back, his own lips quirking into a wry but warm smile.

”Oh yeah, reckon so. What, d’you think I need an initiation or something?”

”We can go to a pub, I’ll buy you a drink. There’s your initiation.”

Tom snickers, obviously pleased with the compromise, and amused, Will follows the constellation of summer-burnt freckles splashed on the bridge of Tom’s nose, now already fading along with the season.

Catching himself and flushing slightly at the way he lingers, Will asks: ”Did the moving go all right?”

”Yeah, got everything in the truck ’n all and drove here.” A pause. ”Mum put up a brave face.”

There’s a distant, glassy glint in Tom’s eyes for a moment, and Will’s seen it enough times to know what it is – and like all those times before, he can see just how deeply it had shaken Tom.

”She’ll be all right,” Will says, wanting to ease Tom’s homesickness. ”You’re close by, she can visit you anytime.”

_It’s not France anymore._

Tom snorts a laugh. ”Yeah, like any distance’s gonna stop her. She’s gonna be here on the weekend, probably to scold us for shoddy cleaning.”

”Didn’t go well?”

”No, it bloody did not _,_ we cleaned all day – and we got the filthiest windows, like proper _layers.”_

Tom’s still making a face of indignation when they sit on the steps, adjust their positions on the cold stone and then, something seems to occur to him, because his expression lights up.

”Oh, did you hear, Joe went back to – wait, what you got there?” Tom trails off and peers curiously as Will shoves some hard candies in his pocket.

”Mrs. Hooper thought I looked pale – here,” Will hands Tom one candy, wrapped in paper. ”What was that about Joe?”

”Oh yeah, he got permission to go back to school. To finish his studies.”

”Oh, he did?”

”Yeah! Gonna be a real fancy architect now,” Tom explains and now, his nose wrinkles as a smile bubbles out again. ”You should hear him makin’ fun of the lay-out of the flat.”

”Ever the critic, then.”

”Yeah, also with the bloody windows. And I have to live with him, Christ, good luck to me.” Tom unwraps the candy and shoves it quickly into his mouth. Savoring the treat. ”So how’s everything? The girls okay?”

”Yes, Sophie went back to school as well, quite happily. She’s excited about the math. Also Lottie learnt to read a bit last week, by the way.”

” _Really?_ Blimey, I gotta get something for her – she liked Jays, right?”

”Goldfinches at the moment, don’t really know why.”

”Oh, they’re pretty colorful. Good pick. Gotta get something for Sophie, too...” Tom tilts his head to glance at Will under the messy curls. ”And you, Scho? You doing all right?”

Will breathes deeply, thinking his chest might creak under it like rusty clockwork. He hangs his head and becomes aware he’s taking a bit too long to answer.

Before he can, Tom clasps his shoulder, his hand settling on him as a warm, safe weight.

”Just tired.”

_Exhausted. Weary._

”...yeah, got’cha.” For that moment, Will can see the same endless heaviness in Tom’s gaze, liquid dark like ink. The same impression of _oldness._ Then Tom smiles – it’s still older, mature, yet kind. He nudges Will gently on the shoulder. ”Wanna go around the block?”

Will glances at him. At this dear, gentle face, so open with everything kept inside him.

Will feels his own shoulders fall with a shorted breath, tension draining from his limbs like bath water, feels himself mellowing out, _melting_.

”I do.”

+

They walk around the block, hands shoved deep in their pockets and just talk.

Tom talks about the apartment, bursting with of huffy indignation and mischievous grins and it lulls Will into a sense of comfort and safety, and Will tells him about the girls, the bookshop, the large variety of customers, the new books he’s found. In turn, he asks Tom about his plans, and after a beat of hesitation, Tom explains he’s currently looking for work.

They end up in front of the Schofield house and Tom pauses, the sunlight spill on his silhouette, dying his hair almost golden brown.

”How’s that for fresh air, huh?” Tom asks, his eyes crinkling playfully, and Will watches him with amused fondness, his mouth lifted into a smile; his heart staggering. It’s not uncomfortable, it’s not stifling, it’s breaking loose and pouring out through the cracks with the force of a rushing river. ”You still owe me that drink.”

Will nods. ”Would you fancy that drink now?”

”Gotta have that initiation out of the way in full swing, yeah?” Tom teases Will, with a huff of breathless laughter.

Will bows his head down, his own smile rising out of control, _happy._ ”Let’s go, then.”

+

They go to the same pub.

Will himself thinks it’s less about defiance and more about practicality, but Tom is determined not to shy away from it even when Will asks.

The inside of the pub bathes in pale dirty light that streams through the coloured window glass and dust particles dance on several light spots on the worn out floor.

The barkeep gives them a curious glance over the counter and Will can pin-point the exact second he realizes.

”Oh,” the barkeep says, goes pink and fumbles. ”Welcome. I – er, your face seems to have healed well, if you don’t mind me saying.”

So much for pretense, Will thinks and scowls at him.

Tom raises an eyebrow. ”Yeah, didn’t even break my nose or nothing.”

The barkeep hesitates and scrubs the shimmering mahogany counter with a rag as if to just do something. ”Thank you for coming back,” he says finally.

”Nah, liked the beer well enough.”

There’s a smile now. ”Glad to hear it, lad.”

He introduces himself as Henry O’Brien, owner of the place and Will is quite certain he charges them less than last time. After thanking him, Will and Tom retreat to the furthest corner of the pub.

”Cheers,” Tom raises his glass and they clink them together.

”Cheers.”

The alcohol stings inside Will’s mouth and he swallows it down.

”So…. Uh, how’s Mary?”

Will looks up, surprised. Red colour has spread on Tom’s face, up to his cheekbones, as he peers nervously at Will.

”Should I be worried that I’m that transparent?” Will asks dryly, that heavy block of ice in his chest giving in and thawing a bit.

”No, not really, ’cause it’s just… thought I’d ask.”

Will sighs, deflating.

It’s different – being a witness to the strangeness and to everything else gone amiss in the house, to the clammy feeling crawling on his skin, the flies on his scalp, time and time _again, never stopping,_ but to form words and say it aloud?

_(failure. father, husband, failure, soldier, friend - )_

Saying it with words, making it even more real?

 _You liar,_ a voice hisses in his head, _it’s already real. There’s no escaping it._

It’s not a –

_I love you._

The confession rings again in his ears, pierces through the spreading fog, crystal clear and so loud it vibrates through his very bones. Breathes crisp oxygen into him.

Yet Will can’t forget the way Mary’s jaw sets, the way there’s something akin to _certainty_ in her eyes whenever the silence gets too empty, too shallow. _Flies crawling up, up higher to his neck._

Ale has turned sour in Will’s mouth and nausea twists his stomach. God, what a mess.

”Scho?”

Will’s shoulders slump down and he rubs his face, trying to banish the grittiness under his eyelids.

”I – I don’t know,” he says, his voice hoarse. ”I don’t know. It’s – we don’t talk much.”

Tom’s hand stills around the pint and he frowns. ”’Cause of…?”

The trenches, the letters, the nightmares, the ghosts, everything rots between them, mangled and _dying._

”Because of... everything,” Will says, swallowing that hot bile down his throat and gestures uselessly with his hand. ”I _can’t –_ talk to her like before. It hasn’t gotten any better since I came back. None of it is like… like then. Like before. She doesn’t understand that it _won’t_ be. I don’t know what to do.”

Tom looks worried. ”Y’know being on the high ground of definitely knowin’ what marriage is like - ” Will snorts, despite himself because _god this person -_ ”She loves you, doesn’t she? Course she does, she waited for you, you’ve got _kids –_ you’re married – for a reason and that’s – that’s _amazing,_ havin’ something like that _-_ wait, hold on, how about the nightmares? She does know about those, right - ?”

Haunting.

_Embers._

Bleached, decaying bodies, sunken into mud. The silence, the endless waiting. The rain of bullets, _thunk-thunk-thunk -_

How can he ever explain what it was like, the horror, carnage and tragedy, seeped into the inches on ground?

A graveyard over _inches._

’ _He’s not there. William, he’s nowhere on this Earth where you can find him’._

”She doesn’t understand,” Will murmurs. ”Tries to get me to talk about it.”

” _Fuck.”_ Tom watches him under furrowed eyebrows, his teeth again nibbling on his bottom lip. ”Shit, that’s – I’m so sorry, Scho,” he says weakly, honesty bleeding into it like an open wound, and Will knows he means it. Of course he does.

Tom’s poker face is translucent and breaking by the seams, and _he’s so painfully honest._

Will can see it, Tom trying to think through the problem, around it, untangle it with clumsy fingers, all questions swirling in his head, but in the end he doesn’t ask about that. Not in a way that Will would expect.

He asks softly:

”Is there anything I can do?”

_God._

Will is grateful they are sitting down, because he thinks all the strength leaves his knees.

_This person._

_With such vast sweetness, kindness that the world is undeserving of._

”I don’t think so,” Will manages to answer, keeping his voice somewhat steady. ”No. We – we will see what happens.”

_For better or worse._

_(the bitter cynical part in him leans towards ’the worse’)_

”Well… I’m here,” Tom says after a moment with such softness that clashes with his jutting chin that Will recognizes as determination. _Stubbornness. Bravery._ Will’s chest hurts. _You soft-hearted_ _beautiful reckless_ _idiot._

 _I’m_ _**in** _ _love you._

”In case of… whatever. No matter what. You’re not gonna get rid of me that easily.”

”Didn’t think so,” Will replies, even though his tongue feels clumsy.

”Well, good – ’cause then it’d be really awkward after everythin’, wouldn’t it.”

A rasping laugh escapes Will’s mouth before he can stop it, the sound rattling wetly on his lips as gratitude spreads into him with languid warmth.

 _Thank you,_ he thinks, gazing back at Tom. _Thank you for being here._

+

”Maybe I could be a shop-keep, what d’you reckon?”

”I think they make you start out as a helper.”

”Pfft, I can help.”

Idly Tom proceeds to throw some suggestions about his work prospects as they walk towards the Schofield house, his shoe kicking a pebble across the cobble-stones.

”Maybe a carpenter. Or a cobbler. I could make some wicked shoes, how ’bout that?”

”If you do, make them so the socks don’t get immediately soaked through.”

”Oh yeah. Bet they have all sorts of neat tricks. Any more requests?”

_For you to be happy. For you to be safe. For you to be content with life._

Instead Will chuckles. ”Maybe you actually getting _paid.”_

”Not for me, you arse, take this seriously, would ya?” Tom laughs through his words, unable to keep his face serious, and it’s a lovely sight.

”I _am,”_ Will replies, allowing himself the freedom of enjoying these little moments of levity.

They stop by the Schofield house, faint yellow light flickers in the downstairs’s windows. The street is shrouded in chilly white mist. The air tastes like north and smoke, bringing a reminder of approaching winter.

Tom’s nose is pink, skin bitten by the cold, his eyelashes are so very long, fanning on the apples of his cheeks.

”So – a proper Londoner?” he asks with a grin.

”Afraid so.”

”Blimey. All that and didn’t even got punched again.”

”You can’t be that disappointed.”

”Well, it can’t always be excitin’ stuff, right?” Tom’s front teeth glint under his lip. ”Thanks, Scho. You’ll drop by, right? We have to show you around.”

”Mmh. Have to see these windows.”

Tom laughs, and shiver goes through his frame. With a hiss between his teeth, he pulls the coat tighter around himself, shoving his hands in his pockets.

”S’bloody cold, innit? Think my hair’s freezin’ into my scalp or something.”

Will reaches and gives a gentle tug on the curl stuck on Tom’s temple. ”Not yet, it seems,” he muses, amused. ”There’s hope for you yet.”

Tom’s chest gives a funny little start under his coat. ”Maybe, let’s not get the pressure too high, yeah?”

”Do you want me to walk you home?”

Tom blinks, surprised by the offer. ”Nah, I’m good. Don’t worry.”

_I always worry._

”And Scho?” When Will looks up again, Tom’s already watching him – there’s that private curve on the corner of his mouth and unbridled, _pure_ affection reflecting back. ”I’m glad to be here.”

Mouth dry and hot pulse pounding under his skin, Will replies faintly: ”Me, too.”

_He can’t even tell him how much._

With a cheerful wave, Tom leaves. Will goes inside.

+

The sensation fades instantly when Will steps inside the house.

First he becomes aware of the _silence._

It’s not a new thing, either, but this time… it’s somehow different. It clings to the wallpaper, like factory smoke and cigarettes. It makes his skin clammy and cold. The thing is that Will’s known it before London. _Haunting, suffocating._

He knew it in the trenches. Moments before the deafening sound of gunfire.

_But why now - ?_

Frowning, Will peeks into the kitchen. The light is on, casting a pale shaky halo onto the tiles and surfaces. The curtains are half-pulled loose.

And Mary’s sitting by the table, her head resting on her palm, her fingers threaded into her hair that falls limply around her face.

”What’s the matter?” he asks, dread knotting into his stomach, because something is wrong. So utterly wrong in a way he can’t pin-point.

Mary lifts her head and her eyes are big, blazing, the skin strained around corners -

\- _desperate._

She gets up from the chair – it creaks against the floor and she raises her chin to look at him, unblinking. Her mouth trembles.

”William, I – I can’t keep doing this anymore.”

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh, this one's a bit shorter, hope that's all right!  
> I've finished about half of the next chapter so I'm hoping to finish it by the next weekend. Thank you again for all the support and such kind words, you guys are the best!! Love you all and hope you have a wonderful week! <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the storm finally happens.

”What?”

That’s all his mind can come up with. Such a small, useless word, he thinks in a detached way and he becomes distantly aware that every sensation leeches from him, drains, leaving behind strange sort of hollowness.

Mary’s face convulses like she’s barely holding onto herself. Despair catching like onto a barbed wire – but then she draws a shuddering breath and meets Will’s gaze.

Unflinching,  _unblinking._

“This. I – I can’t keep doing this anymore,” she whispers. 

“I don’t, what do \- ?” 

“Don’t pretend!” Mary snaps and then slumps into herself again, looking so utterly weary that it twists at him. “Don’t, William, I _ask_ you not to, please, you know full well what I’m talking about.” Naked sorrow passes her face. “None of this is working. Every choice I make has made things even _worse_ than what they were and I swear I _tried - “_

She tries to calm herself, but her hands are shaking badly. “I’m so sorry I took the letters. If I could take it back, I  _would_ but I can’t, I tried and it didn’t help at all  _\- “_

That Will can’t deny, stunned to the core as he is, but before he can say anything, Mary pushes forward, now frantic: “I wasn’t there, I have no idea what you went through and – none of it was easy, nothing is like it was before, you look at me like you have never seen me before and  _I didn’t know what to do.”_

Tears spill now on her pallid cheeks and stream down her face.

“B – but this… this isn’t a good place, is it?” she whispers brokenly. “It just keeps getting worse. No matter how much we try, we just keep getting it wrong and the girls are caught in the middle of it. It’s not fair to them.” Her fingers curl into fists by her sides. “And you… you don’t trust me.” 

Will doesn’t deny that, either.

He has a numb,  far-away realization that this is  _it._

Months of being away, not going home by choice, the choices piling up and up, months  _of silence,_ now come to head. Consequences weigh heavy on his shoulders and it’s  _crushing_ _him underneath_ _._

The fracture between them has dislodged itself, broken irreparably and now they witness its remains rotting in front of them.

Silence drags on. Then –

“You love him,” Mary whispers. “Don’t you?” 

Will stops breathing.

_You love him, don’t you?_

He can’t breathe. He can just stare at her numbly, frozen. Too much. This is -

She smiles. It’s a heartbreaking smile that already knows, and seeing it, Will’s whole body goes both completely dead and pushed towards overdrive.

She can’t mean – does she mean - ? No, she can’t,  _can she -_

She does. She means it.  _She knows._

Panic explodes in his skull, shrapnels scattering in the cold fog.

_You love him_

_You love him_

She knows. She  _knows -_

A small part of him screams at him to lie, to deny it, but he  can’t. No, he  _won’t._

Not this. Not after everything he’s gone through, every raw thing scrubbed inside him, every piece of jagged sort of happiness,  _he can’t lie about that._

He will not.

“I saw you back then, you know,” Mary continues, her shaky voice ringing clear in the kitchen space. She huffs out a weak mirthless laugh. “When he got punched. When he had that nightmare. When you shot out of bed without even a second of hesitation – like you _knew._ You were there with him – and you just _comforted_ him through it. Helped him breathe. Like _he_ knew.” 

She squeezes her eyes shut. Her hand grips the table with white knuckles.

“He made you calm,” she says and her lips set into a thin, fractured line, a parody of a smile. “He made you laugh even without trying. God, he – he knew a thousand things about you, things I didn’t even – I couldn’t even _touch_ you.” 

Mary’s voice cracks.

Will can’t deny it.

_He can’t._

Words shrivel into dust under his tongue. The tight vice around his chest squeezes guilt, shame, fear tangle inside him into a knot.

_This is too much,_ everything sends him into a free fall, he can’t grasp anything, he can’t stop this – !

“I hadn’t seen you smile in so long,” Mary whispers, eyes glazed as if reminiscing. “And then he – he just does it within two minutes after arriving here. In a heart beat, he accomplished everything I tried to do for months. And he’s done that, every single time he’s come here since then. I – I wanted to be angry. I wanted to be so angry, William.” 

“But he’s wonderful,” she says with a strangled laugh. “He’s sweet and so, so honest. He brought me his mother’s cider and biscuits _,_ William. He cooked with me, he did _magic tricks_ for the girls. He made _me_ smile. He helped you even without trying. How could I ever hate him for that?” 

She swallows. “I tried so hard to make it work after you came back,” she says, and now her eyes are glazed leaf green. “But… you’re so far away even now and this – it’s not really working, is it?”

There it is.  _The truth._

Raw, brutal, ugly.

Will’s breathing has gone shallow and uneven. “No, I… I don’t think it is,” he admits hoarsely.

Mary squeezes her eyes shut and struggles to swallow again as if hearing that from him solidifies it, makes it real.

“I saw you just before you came in tonight,” she chokes. “From the kitchen window. I didn’t mean to – to spy, I just… but then I saw the way you looked at him. The way you touched him. God, you’ve really been unhappy, haven’t you?” 

“No, that’s not – I haven’t - “ 

“William. Don’t lie. You haven’t been happy. Whenever he comes here, you _light_ up. I wish you could see your face… it’s like you become alive again. God, you really do love him?”

Will can’t deny it. He won’t.

So,  he  breathes out, ragged: “ _Yes.”_

That’s the only certainty he has right now.

A deafening pause.

It permeates the air. Seeps into the walls. The floor.

“I didn’t plan it,” Will whispers, haggard. “I – I don’t know how it happened. He’s not – he doesn’t even know – “ He closes his mouth, breathes through his nose. He needs to get a grip; he feels off-kilter, bare against a raging maelstrom. 

It’s silent but now it’s different.

“William.” Mary steps closer, and her eyes are red-rimmed. “I – I don’t know if I can – I can’t keep doing this any longer.” 

Her voice shatters into a rising sob _._

“I know,” Will rasps back. “It’s – I know it’s been a lot.” 

_The silences, the nightmares, the rift between them that they can’t close._

_Flies crawling on his scalp._

“I can’t do anything,” she whimpers and presses a shaking palm on her mouth. Tears gather on the corners of her eyes. “God, I tried, William, I swear I did.” 

“I know you did – I’m so sorry – ”

That love, yearning that he has, it expands inside him like a tidal wave, surpasses everything he is, flesh and blood, heart and soul, but he – he’s got  _duties._

_He’s a father. He’s a husband._

“I won’t abandon you or the girls,” he replies quietly, deep ache throbbing against his lungs with every word. 

Mary huffs out a wet laugh. “Oh, William,” she sniffs and takes his hand. “You honest, honorable, stubborn fool of a man. Of course you wouldn’t. But you wouldn’t be happy then, would you?”

Will’s throat burns. “I - “ his voice breaks.  _No._ That’s the truth. He wouldn’t. He knows that. He hates, he  _loathes_ that he wouldn’t be – the easy, normal life like any other family is able to, that is a privilege and an honor that he shouldn’t overlook because not all are as lucky,  _it’s what they fought for_ but he…  _he -_

_He loves them. He loves their daughters fiercely, he loves Mary in that calm, dulled way that has stripped everything else away but he -_

_(he’s in love with tom)_

Desperate, he stares at her, squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head.  _He wouldn’t be happy._

_And he’s so fucking sorry for all of it._

Mary takes Will’s head between her hands and pulls him closer, just  an inch . 

“I wouldn’t be happy then either, knowing that you’d just be unhappy. That you’ve _been_ unhappy all this time. We tried, William,” she whispers, now insisting. “God, we tried so long and it – it didn’t work. But it doesn’t have to continue – we – we don’t have to miserable.” 

“Where does that leave us?” Will manages to get out. They both know what that means. It has been looming above them for far too long for them to feign ignorance now. “Do you want that?” Will swallows the thorns down. “Divorce?” 

The word drops between them like a death knell, but somehow it doesn’t feel like the end, at all.

Mary meets his eyes, and Will sees no hesitation in there. No faltering. Just meadow green, determined and sincere.

She breathes out: “I – I think it’s a very viable option.”

_Strangers stuck in between._

“It’s a big change,” Will rasps again. 

“Any thing worth a damn often is,” she says and smiles, a mixture of fondness and nostalgic sadness. “William. There’s no shame in it. None. It’s no one’s business but ours.” 

Will closes his eyes and holds his wife’s delicate wrist. Feels her pulse flutter. An enormous weight dissolves from his spine, cracks open all the walls and trenches inside his chest cavity, air floods in, and he drags in a stuttering breath.

In between that, he feels sorrow and relief in equal measures.

_Waiting in the trenches. In the fields. Artillery fire._

It’s over.

_It’s over._

Shaking violently Will just nods shakily into her touch.  _Thank you._

He holds on to her wrist. They just stay there for a moment, breathing together, through hurt and relief.

This time, it’s about closure. It’s comfort of reaching that decision, that ending point together, exhausted and worn to the very bone after months and months of battling and suffering.

It’s about letting go.

“We don’t have to decide now,” Mary says and fixes Will’s lapels. “We don’t have to rush.” She hesitates. “We can take the girls to my parents’s house, for a few days, and then we can… think it through properly.” 

Will lets out a breath he’s been holding unconsciously. ”Yes, please,” he says and then feels a stab of guilt burning through. Every time it scalds him like acid. ”If – if it’s all right.”

”Yes, of course it is,” Mary says, waving her hand with the air of impatience. ”We both need to think it through.”

+

His mother-in-law, Mrs. Clara Sandford, comes to get the girls the next day.

She’s always been polished, in a way – her neutral mask is a remnant from the Victorian times, smooth like glass, powdered and _careful._ Her eyes are dark, resembling obsidian beads, and they used to intimidate him, but as always that mask cracks when the girls bustle down, chattering and tugging at her, babbling excitedly and she beams _._

In between all that, Mrs. Sandford doesn’t ask, but Will is quite certain she _knows_ as well.

She bids them good bye, _good luck,_ and the girls wave them good bye and then… it’s just them.

+

The house is different without the girls, and soon Will’s dragged back into the depths of his mind.

It’s a mess. An awful tangled disarray full of uncertainties and shifting cogs, constantly moving and gaining speed faster and _faster -_

Will has no illusions about the world. After the brutality of the war, of _everything_ he’s witnessed… He knows what society thinks. He knows how easily people look down, how easy they are with their scorn and disgust.

His molars stick together. _I did not choose._ That much he does know.

_I just -_

_It just happened._ Will’s not even sure at what point it did happen, but there you are, here’s he now. He just fell in love. Without meaning, without intention, he just _did._

Sharp ache gnaws behind his rib cage.

_I will not abandon you or the girls._

What sort of life can he offer to anyone? Screaming, nightmares, tension? He’s cracked open as he is, a fucking mess, so -

_And Tom._

Tom who doesn’t even know, Tom who thinks Will as his _best friend._

God. He’s the worst, isn’t he. Guilt digs deeper, sinks into his flesh, gnaws _gnaws gnaws._

Will’s thoughts gather inside his skull, clinging onto each other, tar-thick and oily, spiraling and spiraling, his hands keep shaking as the old dread wells up again.

_At least,_ he thinks, tired, _I won’t be living in a lie._

_You think you have the luxury for that?_ a voice sneers again in his ears. _You have a family. A wife. Children. You gave your vows. You think whatever you want counts?_

Will has no reply to that, not really. He sinks deeper into the chair, dull throbbing increasing against his temples.

Would it be best for the girls? For Mary, who deserves more than Will’s issues, his nightmares, his trauma, whatever he dragged from the war? The silence and the questions and _everything._ Is this the right thing to do?

Will buries his head into his hands with a heaving, _wracking_ breath.

He can hear the rustle of Mary’s dress when she comes to the living room and she hands him a cup of tea. It smells like lemongrass and honey, and the warmth of the cup sinks through eventually.

”I’d love to know what you’re thinking,” she says quietly, settling in a nearby arm chair.

It takes a while before Will answers, and his voice is rough from disuse: ”Your opinion on divorce?”

”I don’t think it’s ever anyone’s first choice, really,” she says carefully and takes a sip of her tea. It’s strange, he’s seen her do that countless of times, but now that they are having this conversation, it feels wildly different _._ ”But we – the girls are so small still… this… _uncertainty_ isn’t good for them.”

”Or my nightmares,” Will murmurs. _My flashbacks. My jumpiness._

”Exactly. They aren’t oblivious, William, they notice things. Sophie’s _asked_ me, several times – and that’s why I think it would be the most sensible course of action we have.” Mary pauses, twiddling the cup in her long fingers. ”And… I don’t think _I_ want to live a half life in this marriage,” she says softly.

Will nods, because that’s fair. It’s more than fair. ”I’m sorry.”

”For what?” Mary asks, and there’s hint of that strain again. ”What are you sorry for?”

_Everything._

Will looks her across the cup. ”For – for changing things,” he replies, the honesty clawing out of his mouth.

The furrow between Mary’s brows deepens.

”I don’t think it’s just you,” she says, tentative. She runs her thumb on the brim of the cup. ”The war time was… it was awful. That is an understatement, I know, but after… after everything we’ve done, after everything we’ve seen, after everything that’s _happened,_ we are not the same. It’s useless to pretend otherwise. We used to fit, yes, but we… we were young. I – I think we were very different people back then.” 

_(younger, more whole)_

_War does that._

Will thinks he’s lived a hundred life times since then.

_Exhausted, ancient._

Waiting in the trenches. In the fields. In artillery fire.

“I don’t want to be a reason for resentment,” Mary continues, her tone changing into almost pleading. “And I don’t want to live in constant regret or what-ifs. The war is over and I _can’t_ \- “ She sucks air between her teeth and straightens. “I don’t want to keep looking back, William.” 

“No,” Will murmurs and rubs the bridge of his nose, trying to ease the pounding headache. “I don’t want to either.” 

“How do we do this?” Mary asks, an anxious twist of her lips forming again. 

“Do you want me to move out?” It occurs to Will how jarring it is to discuss about practicalities of the situation, but it’s the way they are going. 

Mary frowns. “I – I don’t want you to be too far from the girls,” she says hesitantly. “Am I allowed to want that?”

“Yes. Of course. I wouldn’t want to be too far, either.” 

Lost, they are quiet again.

“I could rent an apartment nearby.” 

“Are there any?” She sounds doubtful. 

_Tom found one. Shouldn’t be that hard._

“I’ll figure it out.” Will sets the tea cup on the table, rubs his forehead again and sighs. It’s a worn sound. 

+

In the evening when they are eating dinner and it feels like a stark difference again, to do something so normal when everything else around them is slowly unraveling. Unraveling by their choice, but it is a change, nonetheless.

Mary chews her lip, shifting on the chair as if trying to find a good position.

“Can I ask you… about it?” she asks, strangely awkward, and Will’s mood sinks, ever so slightly. He has no doubts of what she wants to ask. 

“...you can.” 

“Did – did you always know?” 

_When we met? When we got married?_

Will’s heart stops in mid-beat. His pulse stills. Then it starts again.

“I don’t know,” he says and meets her eyes across that sudden space between them. “I never really – noticed before. It’s just… I was – I was in love with you, that was not a lie, not at any point. I _was._ But then back there… it just… I did not _choose_ it. But it happened.” 

She considers it, mulls it in her head. Turns it over and over, analyzes and examines it.

“I can see why,” she says finally. “He’s a good person.” 

“Yes… he is.” 

Mary hesitates again. “Will you tell him?”

Will nearly drops his fork to gawk at her. “ _What?”_

Of all the things he’s expected her to ask, this  isn’t  it. 

Mary’s expression turns pinched. “Tom,” she says, now sounding almost annoyed.

“ _No.”_

“What, do you honestly think he wouldn’t like to know?” 

“We are friends. How I feel for him beyond friendship is irrelevant.” 

“ _Irrelevant,”_ she scoffs. 

“Illegal.” 

“ _William_ ,” she says, her eyes narrowing in definite annoyance, and there’s that flash of determination again. 

“No. He – doesn’t need to know any of it. He doesn’t need _this_ to complicate things further. I’m glad to have him in my life.” 

“You fool of a man.” 

“That’s never been a thing I’ve protested against.” 

She huffs something under her breath and shoves another piece of carrot into her mouth, more viciously than would have been necessary.

+

The next morning is Saturday, chilly and casting pale yellow haze on top of London’s rooftops, and Mary’s dressed in her dark gray walking dress.

”I’ll pop to visit Angela,” she says to Will as she’s putting on her earrings and there’s a hint of apology bleeding in. ”I just…” She breathes. ”I need to get out of the house for a bit.”

”You don’t have to explain,” Will murmurs and hesitates. He understands that particular need, more than clearly. ”I – might pay a visit to the Blakes, myself.”

”Oh?”

”I promised to come see their flat.”

Tension in Mary’s face eases. ”Have fun,” she says, gently. With that she takes her purse and leaves.

+

Will hears the door close and he sinks into his chair, lets his lungs fill with air, lets it encompass his whole being.

He breathes in.

He breathes out.

The trembling in his hands settle, just for a bit. His pulse slows down.

The walls seem to exhale. It feels like the house breathes with him.

+

Will knows he should feel bad for not informing the Blakes beforehand – _again –_ but then again, he tries to find solace in the fact that neither of the brothers have ever been concerned with things like that.

He makes his way to the street, allowing himself to enjoy the autumn chill, the scent of leaves and something resembling spices and gingerbread. Eventually he finds the right building – it’s a rather tall one with red tiles, newly painted window frames and some flower pots on the steps.

Joe is the one who opens the door.

He looks surprised for a second before his thin features soften into a genuinely delighted smile.

”Hey, Will!” he greets and they shake hands, a strong, warm grip. ”Nice to see you – how are you?”

”Fine, thank you,” replies Will reflexively, and perhaps Joe sees through it, because his smile turns wry.

”Of course. Come in, come in, it’s bloody cold in the hallway - ”

Joe leads him further into the apartment, and Will has to agree with Tom – the flat is in decent condition; two separate rooms, small kitchen and rather lovely windows – without the dirt, this time – all in all quite fitting for two brothers. There are few boxes shoved to the corner, still unpacked.

As if sensing Will’s thoughts, Joe chuckles. ”Yes, ’settled’ doesn’t quite mean _settled_ in a neat way, I’d say, but it’s us so… expectations are what they are. Please sit down, don’t _hover,_ Will, honestly.”

Will sits down.

”D’you want something to drink? Afraid our selection’s rubbish, we’re a bit low on everything, but we have some cider – I’m sure you are absolutely surprised by _that_ \- ”

”No, no, I’m fine, thank you.”

Joe glances at him, regarding him. ”It shouldn’t be too long, Tom’s still out– the poor blighter’s still working.”

Will blinks. ”Tom got a job?”

Joe laughs and then rubs the back of his neck. ”Afraid so, not that he’s all excited about it, but I’m going to help him soon enough on that front,” he says sheepishly.

”Heard you were finishing school?”

”He told you that? That little blabber-mouth, I swear to God,” Joe snorts fondly and shakes his head. ”No, I’m just joking, it’s not a secret, promise. But yes, essentially, it’s happening. Even the teachers are eager to see me gone already and I’ve barely been back.” Joe pauses to consider it. ”Huh, I should probably be more offended.”

”How’s your - ” Will doesn’t know how to phrase it right and just waves his hand awkwardly, ”Miss Maggie?”

Joe looks amused. ”Oh, _my_ Miss Maggie, all right then, I see how it is,” he chuckles. ”She’s going to give me a wallop for that one if she hears. But she’s all right, we’re in the middle of figuring out some logistics.”

_Well, that’s very relatable,_ Will thinks to himself and again that white buzz starts to ring in his ears, reminding him of his own situation, looming above his head. _God, it really is happening._

When he looks up, he finds Joe watching him, rubbing his chin.

”Will,” he starts, a frown already forming on his brows. ”Things are changing rather rapidly and I know Tom hasn’t - ” He trails off, the frown deepening again and to Will’s shock, Joe _falters._ Finally the oldest Blake settles to say: ”You’ve been a really good friend to him, Will.”

Will is slightly taken aback by this. ”He’s been one to me, as well.”

_Ten times over and over again, proving it without hesitation._ It’s the bare minimum, the bare bones of what Will really feels.

”He can’t shut up about you,” Joe continues and now Will stiffens; Joe’s eyes are bright blue, like ice in January but not unkind. ”I don’t think he realizes just how much.” A pause. ”He – he met your wife and kids, didn’t he?”

Air seems to grow solid in Will’s lungs. ”Yes,” he breathes out. ”He did.”

Joe nods slowly, in deep thought and leans against his knees. A flash of something heavy crosses in his eyes before he rubs his mouth, shakes his head and gets up.

”Sorry, Will – sorry, just – just a bit of melancholy, that’s all,” he says and smiles again, and this time it’s genuine and warm. If Will’s honest, he’d think it’s closer to worry than melancholy but he’s in no position to assume or argue over semantics.

Much like his brother, Joe doesn’t let the silence drag on and with effortless ease directs the conversation to sports.

Half an hour later the door opens and Tom strides in, half way already shrugging his coat from his shoulders.

” – know he’s your mate an’ all but seriously, Joe, he can be a right bastard, that was _bollocks - ”_ Tom stops on his tracks when he sees Will. Soft pink blossoms on his cheeks. ”Scho!”

An exhale escapes Will’s mouth before he realizes he’s even doing it. Tom’s smile rises and it’s infectious, beaming giddy joy, and _god,_ he’s almost radiant with it.

”Hi,” Will greets Tom, relaxing. ”I’m sorry for just – dropping by - ”

”Pfft, are you joking? You can do that anytime - ”

”God, don’t say _that,”_ Joe interjects, but he’s barely suppressing his own smile. ”If he shows up after midnight, I’m sure as hell not getting up.”

”Fine, fine, I’ll do it, whatever, what a bloody great help you are.” Tom turns his attention back to Will and Will isn’t sure what he sees, but Tom’s smile fades.

_(pale skin, exhausted_ _dark_ _circles around his eyes, the bleak flatness in them)_

Under Tom’s eyes Will feels paper-thin, fragile around the edges – so desperately tired. He can feel himself crumbling.

Tom’s lips part and his gaze flitters across Will’s features as if instinctively looking for shrapnels, bleeding wounds, _anything_ , his eyebrows knitting together. ”Scho, is – did something happen?”

Will’s mouth turns ashen dry. ”I - ”

And suddenly he has no idea what to say.

_What can he say?_

Why is he here?

He doesn’t want to wrench out all the ugly things rotting under the deathly still surface, _he doesn’t have to drag the Blakes into it._ Nausea churns in his stomach again. Ill with shame and guilt, Will looks down at the worn floor boards.

”No, I – I just wanted to see you,” he murmurs and that’s not a lie. _Coward._

Tom observes him for a brief moment and tilts his head slightly. ”All right,” he finally says so _softly_ that it aches, it hurts right under Will’s sternum. ”C’mon, did Joe already show you the bastard windows?”

”One of which doesn’t even open,” Joe hollers from the kitchen.

”Oi, you can’t just _manhandle_ ’em open, now can you, you fuckin’ caveman,” Tom yells back, scrunching his nose in indignation.

The view is quite nice as well – rooftops spread out in front of them, bright autumn light casting through white mist that’s rolling between buildings and chimneys.

”It’s wonderful,” Will says and means it.

”You should’ve seen him, he nearly broke his damn neck cleaning them,” Joe says as he steps out of the kitchen and offers some biscuits to Will.

Tom, however, scowls at him. ”Why do you gotta say it like that?” he whines. ”An’ for the record, I didn’t.”

”Keep telling yourself that, Tom,” Joe snickers and ruffles Tom’s head. ”Do you want tea? I made some for myself and Will, there should be enough for you too.”

”Oh, ’course, thanks.” Tom turns his head toward Will, their eyes meeting, searching the endless blue. Then he grins, dimples blossoming in sight. ”What d’you reckon, Scho, wanna play cards?”

Relief floods into Will, and he smiles – and it feels more real than anything else he’s done that day.

”I’d – I’d actually really love that,” he rasps.

Tom softens. ”Yeah?”

”...yeah.”

+

They play cards.

+

Later Joe excuses himself to go to the kitchen, and Tom’s worry is palpable in the air.

”It’s all right,” Will murmurs, his voice raw, all but catching in his throat. ”I’ll tell you, eventually.”

Tom glances at him, uneasiness still clinging onto him but then he relaxes and nods. Will crumbles, sagging in relief and gratitude – Tom’s complete _trust_ in him is more than humbling.

”S’okay,” Tom says just as quietly and bumps their shoulders together. ”C’mon, show me your bloody cards, no way you had full house.”

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I have to post this chapter before I lose my nerve.   
> Dun dun duu, it's finally the confrontation time. I hope I made it justice. It's a mess.   
> Remember when I thought the fic was gonna be just 2 chapters? :D   
> Anyway, thank you again for reading, your comments have been so amazing and meant so much, so thank you so so much for everything, i love you guys <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which decisions are made.

”Hey, Scho – I got a job.”

Tom’s proud tone makes Will smile. It’s quite something, almost like an accomplishment, it’s hatching out of him, from the jagged edges of his own shell and it’s a relief to feel something like that.

He humors Tom with a fond hum. ”I heard, Joe told me.”

Tom’s jaw doesn’t quite drop in outrage but it’s close enough. ” _What?_ Oi, why’d you do that?” he whines to Joe, who pretends he’s not part of the whole thing.

”I’d call it fair game, Tommy,” he replies without looking up. ”You know, since you can’t keep your own gob shut.”

”But it’s not even – no, you know what, you’re _awful,_ y’know that?”

”Yes, yes. Now hand me your cup if it’s empty.”

”Your face is empty,” Tom mutters, positively pouting but he does hand his cup to Joe, his eyes twinkling.

Amused, Will points out: ”He didn’t tell me what it was, though, so consider me intrigued.”

”Oh, _i_ _ntrigued_ , he says,” Tom snickers. ”All right so, guess what, you’re gonna be _so_ surprised – I’m a helper. Assistant, I reckon s’called officially. Way fancier title, innit? In a grocery store too, funny huh – think the owner’s from Yorkshire? Couldn’t really tell. Put me to the front immediately.”

”Charming old ladies, you are,” Joe teases and Tom points a finger at him.

”You, I’m not gonna even talk to you. Scho, help me.” Tom drops beside Will, groaning dramatically fit for a Shakespearean stage actor and lays his head on Will’s shoulder.

Will chuckles. ”Do you like it?”

”S’fine, I guess. I mean, it’s nothin’ fancy but it’s nice to just be there. Be useful, you know?” Tom grins mischievously and the sight is so familiar that Will’s relieved to be a witness to it. Absently he wonders if he’ll ever stop being grateful for it. ”Plus gettin’ paid _is_ nice.”

”So in it for the money, I see,” Will teases him and he really has to marvel how easy it is to breathe now, his lungs fill with crisp air, he can breathe and he can _smile,_ it stretches as he watches Tom’s beaming, happy face and it digs in the sweetest way.

Tom rolls his eyes. ”Yeah yeah, that’s me, a bastard scoundrel.”

_Furthest from that._

”Myrtle would be heartbroken if she knew,” Joe adds as he leaves through something that looks like a pile that seems to consists of scribbled paper slips, sketches and notebooks. He dodges when Tom throws a napkin at him.

”Shut up, she loves me the best,” Tom laughs through it, all lively and bubbling, and god, Will’s heart throws cartwheels in his chest.

_He’s so bloody stupid over this person and no part in him is sorry for that._

Joe gives them a look over his papers that’s closer to exasperation and shakes his head, appearing to resign to whatever fate has reserved for him as Tom Blake’s older brother.

”All right, I have to leave you gents – just to organize these,” he waves the pile and grimaces. ”I have to return most of these buggers tomorrow. _Christ._ ”

”Oh, that’s the one you spilled coffee on, didn’t ya?”

”Shut up, Tom.”

”No way. It’s got a ring on it. _Ooh,_ d’you think they’ll lower your grade for it?”

Will gestures with his cup to talk over Tom’s playful smugness. ”Please – don’t let us stop you.”

”No, it was a welcome procrastination at first,” Joe says and shuffles over toward a room that Will assumes is his own. ”Play nice, boys.”

”What, we always do!”

Joe closes the door behind him, and Tom stretches with a sigh. He doesn’t wear exhaustion same way as Will or Joe, he’s not worn or thinned out, but he’s got shadows around his eyes, prominent now in the silence.

Will murmurs: ”You all right?”

Tom doesn’t quite jump but his head lifts and those eyes find Will’s, drawn and easy with familiarity. _That same blue, the same summer blue in the trenches, in the Blake house, here and now._

There’s breathless sort of intimacy about it that makes Will shiver every time.

”Yeah,” Tom replies softly. ”Jus’… adjusting is always tad difficult, innit.”

Will knows what he means. ”It is,” he says quietly. ”Do you have decent co-workers at least?”

”Yeah, reckon so. I mean, they haven’t been wankers so far. Huh. Figure that could happen.”

”It won’t.”

Tom looks amused. ”Oi, you gotta be careful, Scho – too much optimism can be bad for you.”

Will snorts. ”Give it a few days.”

A pause.

”Well, _you_ haven’t grown tired of me yet,” Tom points out with a faint smile, his gaze settling on Will again without nerves and there’s just this comfortable sort of serenity about him that a pang pierces through Will.

_Complete trust. Honesty._

”...no,” Will admits, his voice rougher. ”I haven’t.”

_I won’t._

_As long as I’m alive I won’t._

Pleased, Tom beams at him, pink blooming on his cheeks, warm in the living room light.

They get up and Tom starts to wash their dishes. Will stands beside him and helps him by toweling them dry. Tom hums under his breath, an off-tune melody: ” _\- sing oak and ash and thorn, good sirs, all on a midsummer’s morn...”_

It lulls Will into the hushed moment.

Perhaps that is why he finds it in him to push forward.

”Mary and I are - ” Will falters, his voice suddenly trailing off, sand-dry – he doesn’t quite know how to say finish it. How to _say_ it.

Tom’s hands pause in the foaming water. Will doesn’t think he’s even breathing. However, nothing prepares him for Tom’s question.

”You gonna have a baby?”

Will’s mind blanks out. _”What?”_

Beside him, Tom’s shoulders are drawn tight towards his ears, his nostrils flare and now Will realizes Tom’s breathing has turned shallow. Tom still stares at the water, completely still.

”She’s pregnant?” he repeats, his tone more forced, straining against his words, almost quavering.

Will stares at him, bewildered. ”She’s not.”

Tom’s silent for a terrifyingly long time. Then he flushes, bright scarlet painting splotches up to his hairline and ashamed, he lowers his head.

”Fuck, sorry, Scho,” he mumbles weakly. ”That – I thought – that was a bloody awful assumption to make, I’m sorry.”

Will furrows his brow. ”Don’t know why you’d jump to that.”

Tom inhales sharply and he finally turns to look at Will beside him, and the only way Will can describe the look in his eyes is _desperate. Drowning._

”S’nothing, all right,” he hurries to say, his Adam’s apple bobbing. ”It’s just me being a stupid bastard, I’m sorry. I just – sorry.”

Will’s not sure what’s happening in the conversation, when it veered off in such a wrong direction, so utterly wrong but he needs to fix it.

”We are getting divorced.”

_Clang._

Tom drops a cup into the sink. It clatters to the bottom. His eyes are wide and now he stares at Will in pure shock.

” _What?”_

”We are getting divorced.”

Tom’s chest seizes shakily, catches in mid-motion. ”Scho,” he breathes out like he’s choking and Will can _hear_ pain in there, ”Scho, _fuck –_ _I’m so sorry.”_

Strangely Will finds himself relaxing and he regards Tom gently. ”We are not,” he replies quietly. ”Sorry, I mean. It was a mutual decision.”

”But – your kids, everything, all that happened - ”

”It’s better for everyone,” Will says and it feels real, saying it aloud. It’s reality, it’s happening. And saying it, his own vocal chords forming the words, syllable by syllable, makes him feel like _it’s the right decision to make._

Makes him more certain of everything.

Tom searches him again under knitted eyebrows, nervous and still so _so sorry,_ and slowly, _slowly,_ Will sees him come to the same conclusion – that Tom sees that serenity in _him._

_That Will’s done his peace with it._

”Oh,” Tom says and it’s so very soft. Some of the tension leaves his shoulders. ”You – you’re… not all right, obviously but…”

”Yes,” Will says. ”It’s the best choice to make.”

”Doesn’t mean you can’t be sad or – or grieve it,” Tom points out.

The space behind Will’s ribs expands, bursts around the seams. _Fondness, love, sorrow, relief,_ everything bleeds in.

”Yes,” he murmurs. ”I know. Thank you.”

Tom still watches him, his teeth worrying on his bottom lip. ”It must’ve been hard, come to decision like that? After everything?” he asks hesitantly like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to ask that.

Will nods, a hard burning lump forming in his throat. Words have disappeared, he doesn’t have the strength to speak.

Tom makes a decision in split second; he wraps his arms around him, and Will melts into it. Tom is solid and warm, he smells like himself, _soap, cherries._

Will draws in air like _he’s_ the one drowning and his other hand reaches behind Tom, clutching the back of his shirt. He can feel Tom’s lungs filling under his palm. _In, out._ A flutter of a pulse thrumming underneath. Heat soaks under the fabric, radiating.

”I’m so sorry, Scho,” Tom whispers.

Will nods, mute, his grip tightening.

Then,

” _Thank you.”_

+

It’s like resurfacing. Coming up for air. Breaking the surface of the river. _Breathing._

_With cherry blossom petals holding him afloat._

+

Will can breathe.

+

Tom’s worry is still there, but now they can talk about it.

Will feels splayed open, ugly scars in full display and he’s got little strength left to resist it. So he doesn’t. He goes with it. _With the river, with the petals, with everything and it’s a relief to let go._

”It was too much, afterwards,” Will murmurs when they return to the living room. ”After coming back. The way she did not understand and we just… got stuck in it. Everything being wrong and we couldn’t move past it. We thought this would be better. For us and the girls.”

Tom stares at him. His throat still works. ”You… you really think so?” he asks nervously.

” _Yes,”_ Will says and now he’s confident in it. It’s almost an alien sensation. The vices around his chest loosen. ”It hurts… yes, but I think this is the best possible way to make sure - ” He swallows. ”That there will be no regrets or bitterness.”

”Blimey, Scho, that – that’s - ” Tom watches Will with such torn despair that Will can understand why. Of course he does. Tom’s a bleeding heart, he is _kindness_ and honesty and everything decent in the world. Of course he worries. That’s why it’s no surprise why Tom asks: ”And you – you’re all right? I mean, you can’t be, obviously, but _considerin_ _g_ \- ?”

”I’m not going to break,” Will says firmly but not unkindly. ”You don’t have to worry.”

”Piss off, I always worry,” Tom says with a watery smile, and it’s so real, so heartbreakingly _genuine_ that Will’s fingers already twitch forward on instinct, ready to brush those tears away, to comfort, but he holds himself still.

_(i love you)_

”It’s a good thing,” Will continues, his voice a quiet murmur, his gaze fixed on Tom’s face. ”It’s a relief. I’ll be just as involved with the girls’s lives as I am now but I won’t live in the same household.”

Tom blinks. ”Wha – what does that mean, where are you gonne _live?”_

”I don’t know yet. Rent something.” Will’s lips turn into a wry smile. ”There _are_ available apartments in London I’ve heard.”

”You cheeky arse _,_ can’t believe you’re _joking_.” A beat. Tom bites the inside of his cheek. ”You – you could always crash here?” he suggests shyly _._ ”Y’know, until you figure it out?”

Will’s breathing stutters. For a split second his mind screeches into a halt and then scrambles between yearning, incredulous want and crippling need to not be a burden.

”Would that – would you be all right with it?”

”Where are your ears, I just _offered.”_

”Don’t want to – to impose - ”

”Oh, like you would be. Wait – unless you don’t want to? ’Cause you can say no, ’course you bloody can, just tell me to go to hell, I – I won’t get offended.”

”You _would.”_

”Well, it’d sting a bit, wouldn’t it? But I’d _get_ it. ’Sides, Joe’s only home to sleep anyway, he spends most of his time at school or library, we could get you a camping cot or something.”

”Like in the bunkers?” Will teases him and Tom wrinkles his nose in pretend affront and thumbs his suspenders with an air of huffy pride.

”Oi, how dare you, I’m _way_ more hospitable than that lot. I’d even get you proper food – you know, not _Bosch dog meat.”_

”Oh, yeah?”

”Yeah! Or if ya keep bein’ a bastard, I can get you a rat to make it more cozy, how ’bout that?”

”Pass on the rat, thanks.” Will softens. ”I don’t want to be a bother.”

Tom scowls, mouth pursing into a stubborn pout that Will is very familiar with. ”Bloody hell, Scho, let’s face it, it’s more likely you grow tired of _me._ Besides, the whole thing wouldn’t be nothin’ new to us anyway – well sorta. You’re not exactly a bloody stranger, now are ya?”

Will has to admit that’s a very good point.

+

Joe’s face doesn’t quite shutoff when they tentatively ask him about it. The muscle in his jawline goes taut. In comparison, his poker face is miles better than his brother’s, but Will can still make out a flash of _something_ in his eyes – to his unease, Will’s not sure what exactly it is.

_Worry, panic?_

Then they explain the situation to him, and it’s easier as an united front.

Joe’s quiet the whole way through. In fact, he’s so quiet that even Tom starts to look a little alarmed.

Then finally, Joe asks faintly: ”You’re divorcing?”

Tom scowls. ”Oi, _Joe,_ sod off _,_ can’t just ask a bloke that,” he hisses, crossing his arms. ”Well? D’you reckon he can crash here while – you know? Stuff?”

Joe relaxes and he smiles, warmer now. ”’Course. That’d be practical, wouldn’t it? We’ll make some room for you – good thing we haven’t unpacked everything yet, huh, Tommy?”

”Yeah ’cause _that’s_ why.”

”I would take part in paying rent,” Will interrupts.

The brothers exchange a look. Tom purses his mouth in a way Will knows he wants to argue, but Joe replies before he can: ”We can talk about it later but thank you. That’s appreciated, Will. You’re welcome to stay here if you want.”

There’s no lie in it, and Will has to wonder what the hell he’s ever done in his life to make friends like these.

There’s still a long way to go before practical changes.

_But it’s a start._

+

When he comes back from the Blakes and when Mary returns from Angela’s, they both know it. Like the decision is physically etched onto them. The way it has set in their skin and blood. The certainty. The inevitability.

They have reached that ending point, finally.

+

They agree to it.

They will divorce.

+

Along with relief comes the inevitable sense of loss, of course. Will is not a stranger to that concept either but he can deal with it. He knows it will pass eventually. What gnaws on him the most is how to tell their daughters.

_They are so little._

Telling the girls is almost as an excruciating experience as leaving them during the war.

Will thinks his soul – what’s left of it, the old ravaged thing, worn as it is – bleeds for them, self-loathing rears its ugly head again, guilt tastes like copper pennies under his tongue _-_

_But this change is for the best._

There is no easy way to tell something like that.

_(he remembers when they were born, he remembers their first smiles, bright-eyed, toothless, smiling and cooing, all the giggles, their pudgy little fingers, the way they slept, clutching the blankets in their tiny fists, their first steps, first words, he remembers all of it, and he nearly breaks under it all)_

They take time to figure it out. To rehearse it few times. And when they finally tell them, Will is grateful for Mary’s presence.

”Remember when Da was away for a long time before he came back home?” Mary starts, her tone gentle. She has Lottie in her lap, and Sophie’s between them, curled against Will’s side like a sleepy cat but both girls’s eyes are curious.

”Yes,” Sophie pipes up immediately.

Will’s pulse picks up. Nausea churns behind his navel, in hot acrid waves.

”He’s going to go live with Uncle Tom soon,” Mary continues and Will can only admire her strength; her spine is steel, there’s a steady, determined blaze in her eyes and how grateful he’s for all of it. ”Do you remember Uncle Tom? He made you the fox toys.”

”’Course we remember,” Sophie sounds so indignant that Will would have found funny in any other situation but now he’s too much on edge.

”He makes _magic!”_ Lottie adds, nodding.

”He did, yes,” Mary agrees. ”Da will go live with him from now on, but he will live just a street away from home. He will see you both very often, as often as you need.”

”To tell bed time story?” Lottie asks and the lump forms again in Will’s throat, threatening to rise and break out.

”Yes,” he manages to say, struggling to keep his voice steady. ”Of course. Even though I will not live here anymore, I still love you both so much. That will not change, not ever. You two are the most important things in my life.”

”It’s not because I’ve been naughty?”

Sophie’s fragile voice makes pain lance through Will’s heart. She looks older than her years, _more serious, more like Will._ Taciturn, vulnerable, shaking.

He squeezes her tighter and presses a reassuring kiss into her hair.

”No. It’s not your fault,” he says to Sophie and feels her relax into the hug. ”You have done nothing wrong, Soph. _Nothing_. You or Lottie. Sometimes – sometimes things like these happen to adults and it’s not anyone’s fault, and... usually it works out for the best in the end.”

Sophie buries her nose into Will’s shirt.

”I’m so proud of you two, you are the bravest little girls I have ever known,” Will continues, patting her head. ”It’s all right to feel sad. And it’s all right to cry. I’ll be here for both of you, always, even when I don’t live here anymore. We are still your parents and we still love you both more than anything. That will never change, no matter where we live.”

Sophie turns to look at Will, her eyes wet. Then, she starts to cry. Awful heaving sobs that tear into the very roots of Will’s heart.

He gathers her into his arms and holds her tightly. Rocks her. Hums. He knows how to comfort their children.

_It’ll be all right._

_It’ll be all right._

_+_

It’s a start.

+

Will moves in with the Blakes a month later.

+

It’s a damp cold day near the end of September.

Mary’s jawline trembles as she reaches to tug his lapels, to smooth out a wrinkle on the fabric. Will allows her to. The moment hangs heavy on them but in the same time it holds the dizzying sense of _freedom._

”You’ll come by tomorrow?” she asks, her voice wavering at the end. That’s what they agreed to – frequent visits at first, to ease the girls into the change.

”Yes.”

He leans and presses his lips on her forehead, one last time. _As a goodbye._

It’s long since they have shed the last remnants of their romance, now it has dulled into almost platonic companionship. They have known each other for years, and time was against them, stripped them both open and then hardened them in a way that left them unprepared for the distance and the artillery fire.

_It’s finally over._

The suffering, the tip-toeing, the hurt, _everything rotting between them._

Mary exhales, and it’s such a wobbly sound. ”I did not think it would be this hard,” she chokes.

”I know. You were more than enough,” he says and means every word. ”You made me very happy once. Thank you.”

Mary meets his eyes. _Unflinching. So very brave._ ”You as well. You are the father of my children. That won’t ever change and that’s something I will never regret.” She squares her shoulders. ”Tell Tom I said hi?”

”I will. Likewise to your parents as well.”

”Mmh. They’ll be here soon, hopefully they bring that bigger suitcase. And William?”

He looks at her.

”Allow yourself to be happy, too.”

Struggling to swallow, Will lowers his head. ”We’ll see.”

” _Fool,”_ she snorts but it’s a fond reprimand.

So Will says goodbye to Mary – and to the house they bought after they got married. The house where they have raised their children. The house, once filled with laughter, belonging, memories from happier times.

The house that turned into _a stranger’s place, egg shells, shadows and flies,_ but now… just a house.

He leaves.

+

_It’s a beginning._

_+_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaah D:  
> Divorces are hard. Being a kid stuck in it is even worse.  
> Also poor Joe, he wants so hard for Tom to be happy and he's torn between being a good brother and a good friend. But he chooses Tom every single time.  
> I just realized that one more chapter and this fic is officially the longest thing I've published in English. That's kinda terrifying not gonna lie. Thank you again for reading and being with me on this crazy ride, I love you all <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which life goes on in Blake & Schofield flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're moving at glacial pace, oh my god.

It’s both easy and not.

It shouldn’t be surprising just how _familiar_ it all is.

All three of them are soldiers, they are all used to proximity, the routine.

Will can breathe. It’s a stunning realization that hasn’t occurred to him before – he did not think he’d miss a damn thing from the war but there’s still some energy left in him to be _surprised._

It’s a breath of fresh air – like from the Blake house out on the country side.

He has a cot near the windows. Between the curtains, he can see chimneys and tall buildings, the sunlight glowing through smoke and clouds. Can see the sky shifting colours behind it, blue, orange, dirty yellow, dust gray, _red and gold._

It’s cluttered in the Blake flat – well, now Blake and Schofield flat as it is. It’s got a scent of plaster hanging in the air, but also tart apples, ripe cherries _, always cherries_ and stale cologne.

The apartment is cozy and close and imperfect and _somehow it all fits._

Tom was right; Will barely sees Joe on weekdays – the only indications that he even lives there are a pot of coffee on the stove on the mornings, crumpled papers scattered on the kitchen table and some clothes hanging from a rack.

”Told ya,” Tom says, his mouth full of toast when Will mentions it in passing. ”Lives there, he does.” He shoves the rest of the toast in his mouth. ”Ugh, why does the clock have to move so bloody fast? I don’t like it.”

”You don’t like mornings in general,” Will says, not quite absently because that’s how used to it he is.

There’s no gunfire, no stench piercing through the smoke and fog into his brain _,_ no fear prickling the back of his neck. No flies crawling on his scalp.

And Tom sits there, sipping his coffee, eyes still half-asleep, the hairs on his temple still sticking out that he hasn’t managed to tame with a comb. Shine from outside highlights his silhouette, a beautiful hazy glow, his rosy cheek still has the pillow’s lace pattern imprinted on the skin, and _god,_ Will doesn’t even have the words.

_Alive. Beautiful, alive, flawed, so impossibly good._

And Will – god, if Will would die right now, he thinks he would at least die content.

+

”Soo… wanna walk with me to work?”

A smile resurfaces, real, _fond._

”If I have to. Figured you’re dragging me there no matter what I say.”

”Shut up, you love it.”

Will does.

+

”...you’re not just humoring me, are you? ’Cause that’d be really rude.”

”No, you idiot. It’s all right.” Then because Will’s heart is a soft, useless, _viciously feeling thing,_ he continues, more gentle:”Stop worrying.”

_I’m right where I want to be._

Tom’s face grows lovely pink, spots spreading to his neck, and embarrassed, he grumbles something under his breath. Will thinks he can see a shy smile there, hidden behind his lapels.

+

An unbearable, insane want to reach over to hold Tom’s hand together crosses through his mind yet again, but he doesn’t dare to even think to close the gap.

+

” - met this mate of Joe’s – just run into him before you showed up to our flat, remember?”

”Reckon you called him a bastard,” Will replies mildly and hands Tom a paper-wrapped candy that Mrs. Hooper has taken upon herself to give Will – probably in straight-forward attempt to make him eat more.

” - oh, thanks! - yeah, well, he _is._ Shows off his money, all suits an’ expensive shoes, an’ it’s so _stupid._ Ambushed me from the left field, so full of himself, the arse,” Tom grumbles, unwrapping the candy and frowning like it’s done something offensive to him personally.

”Why’d he ambush you?”

”Wanted to me to pass a letter to Joe. Which I forgot ’cause you were there - ” The colour deepens ever so slightly on his skin, ” - but whatever, Joe got it eventually. I take my mailman job _very_ seriously even if it’s for a total wanker.” He examines the candy wrapper. ”Oh, is it fudge this time? Nice.”

”Yeah, she’s started mixing it a bit.”

”Oh right, wasn’t it lemon last time?”

”Mmh. Almost broke my bloody teeth in it.”

”Aww, she’s like a nan, it’s kinda cute, innit?”

Will allows himself to smile at that. ”Yeah, sort of. When she’s not knocking anyone off ladders.”

” _Scho!_ What, did she try to kill you or somethin’?”

”Probably,” Will says dryly but can’t help another smile, and Tom giggles; breathless peals of laughter. ”No, it was an accident, I think she didn’t notice me up there.”

”But you’re so bloody _lanky,_ what, is she blind?”

”I don’t know – partially?”

”She would’ve seen your legs dangling, though...”

” _Dangling?_ Have you ever used a ladder?”

”Oh my god, did you fall so hard on your big head you’re _still_ having a concussion?”

They grin at each other, and Will feels strangely young, almost care-free. It’s an odd sensation, hard to shrug off. Tom ducks his head, his mouth curving into such a sweet, warm smile. In Will’s opinion late autumn suits him so well, and absent-mindedly Will finds himself thinking he’d love nothing more to see Tom enjoying other seasons as well.

_Winter. Spring. Summer. Autumn._

”You visiting the girls tonight?” Tom asks when they cross the street where they can spot the green fabric canopy of Mrs. Hooper’s bookshop.

”Tomorrow. They’re with Mary’s parents today.”

”Think you can give ’em the bird thing tomorrow?”

Will glances at him. ”You finished it?”

”With my finger half-chopped off, yeah.” Tom grimaces, the colour on his cheeks flaring scarlet. ”Stupid mistake. I still think the beak looks bloody awful, might need to fix that, too,” he mutters. ”Joe saw it and guess what he said?”

”What?”

”He said it looks like a half-plucked chicken that flew face-first into a wall.”

Will chuckles. ”They’re gonna love it even if it looks like it flew into a wall. Even if it has a crooked beak.”

”I’ve seen chickens before, Scho. We’ve _had_ chickens. Sure, they’re fluffy but you can see urge to kill in those eyes. Like I wanna give somethin’ like that to your kids.”

Will can’t stop himself; he laughs. It escapes, it flows, unrestrained. Tom’s eyelashes flutter, he angles his head toward Will, the light reflecting in those ocean blue eyes, his smile growing so soft.

”Tom,” Will murmurs, finally catching his breath as they stop under Mrs. Hooper’s canopy. ”They’ll love it. They loved the foxes, they loved you doing magic. This is no different, they’ll love the birds, too.”

”You’re not just sayin’ that?”

Will meets his gaze, calm, serious. ”You know me, I never just say anything.”

Tom’s lips part in startled surprise. ”Yeah,” he finally says, finding his voice and it’s scratchy, uneven. _I do know you._ ”You don’t, do ya? Not wasting words on rubbish, yeah?”

Will snorts, amused. ”If you want to put it like that.”

The moment passes – noises from the traffic, people’s chatter filter into it, and they catch themselves.

”Hey, Scho?”

”What?”

Tom shifts, almost _awkwardly_ in his coat, fiddles with a button on his cuff. ”Could we – maybe – y’know, eat dinner at Henry’s today? For a change?”

Will blinks. ”Sure. Sounds good.”

Tom relaxes and beams at him. He bumps Will’s shoulder. ”Have a nice day at work?”

”You, too.”

”Don’t fall off any ladders, either!”

The sound of Tom’s laugh follows him inside, and it’s quite nice.

+

Henry O’Brien is a good barkeep, but his brother is even a better cook.

Although they’ve learnt the man can’t cook an omelette to save his life which is why Will and Tom often choose dinner time instead. It’s not often but it’s nice to have a familiar place nearby.

”Hello, lads,” Mr. O’Brien greets them when they step in. ”Watch out for the hangin’ ornament there – Emily thought it might cheer up the place but at least three customers have hit their bloody heads on the thing.”

”Why not just take it down?” Tom asks shrugging off his coat, and Mr. O’Brien barks out a laugh.

”And that just shows you’re not well-versed in love, young Mr. Blake,” he says but it’s not exactly scolding.

Tom’s ears turns ruddy. ”I know _something,”_ he mumbles.

”It makes her happy,” Mr. O’Brien continues. ”So the blokes can just look where they’re fucking going and duck their heads. So, how are you two?”

”All right,” Will replies as they take a seat in front of the counter – it’s still not crowded, there are few customers in the corner, apparently engrossed in a debate about railways.

”Yeah, nothin’ much – hey, can we have dinner here?”

Mr. O’Brien doesn’t make a face but his mouth turns into a smile behind a well-groomed moustache. ”Good God,” he says, obviously joking. ”Didn’t pick you for a dare devil. Well, we have some stew – how about that?”

Tom brightens. ”As long as it’s not beets, I’m not picky.”

”Oh, you’re not?” Will asks him, only to tease a little.

”Oi, if you bring up your ham and bread, it _still_ tasted like ol’ shoe, and I’m not wrong.”

”You still ate it.”

”Yeah, I was starving! What d’you want from me?”

”A thank you would’ve been nice,” Will says dryly, not meaning it at all and judging by the way Tom’s beaming at him, all mischievous and pleased, he doesn’t take it seriously, either. ”You want beer with the stew?”

”Oh yeah, not gonna say no to that. You hear that, Henry?”

Mr. O’Brien, who has his very piercing eyes kept on them, at least has the decency to pretend he isn’t listening to any of this and nods. ”Gonna be a moment, better take your wallets out meanwhile, lads.”

He disappears for a moment into the kitchen.

”I’ll get this one,” Will says, taking his wallet from his breast pocket. Tom pauses to frown at him.

”Wait, no, how’d you figure that? It was _my_ idea, you don’t have to, that’s not what I – ”

”You can pay next time.”

”But - ”

”Tom. Just let me buy you dinner.”

_Please._

He wants to. It’s silly, he knows, but he wants to take care of Tom, and this is one way to do that.

Tom pauses, almost hesitant, then he squints at Will, puffing his cheeks a bit. ”Okay, fine,” he huffs. ”But I’ll _remember_ this.”

Will snorts. ”You can buy me a drink later, we’re even then.”

”Is that how it works?”

”No rules.”

Tom laughs, and that’s when Mr. O’Brien comes back, raising an eyebrow at them. ”Settled the bill, then?” he drawls dryly.

”I tried but Scho’s not havin’ it,” Tom explains.

Mr. O’Brien doesn’t look particularly surprised. ”I see. Well, frankly I don’t give a fig – as long as someone pays,” he says and Will thinks he senses some weight behind that sentiment. Shrugging it off, he pays, and Mr. O’Brien continues: ”Your dinner will be out in a moment. Also your table’s free over there – but also if you lads want to stay here, that’s fine, too.”

”Is that a hint that you’re already sick of us?” Tom asks with a grin. ”That’s cold of you, Henry.”

”Officially I can never be sick of customers,” Mr. O’Brien deadpans. ”No, I’m just giving you options, now that there _are_ them available.” He taps at his nose, adjusts his vest and turns to serve a factory worker in a heavy coat.

Tom shoots a questioning look to Will and nods his head towards their table in the corner, and Will agrees. Together they move across the pub with their pints and get to their seats.

”You’re so bloody sneaky, Scho, can’t believe you.”

”Are you really complaining?” Will asks, amused.

”What, _no –_ I’m not. It’s nice.” Tom’s finger traces the worn scratches on the table’s surface as if to distract himself. ”But you better not be doing it outta any stupid obligation.”

That makes Will’s head snap up. ”What? No, I’m not.” That hasn’t even crossed his mind. ”I just - ” Will clears his throat, his voice gone suddenly low and hoarse. ”I just want to.”

_You to be all right. You to be happy._

Tom’s eyelashes fan onto his cheekbones again. ”Oh,” he says softly, bows his head down shyly as if he can’t bear to look forward, his fingers still running over the scratches. ”Yeah?”

Will grabs his hand on the table, stilling it.

”Yeah. I _do.”_

_I want you to be happy._

Tom regards him across the table and smiles. So achingly soft. His fingers curl around Will’s just for a moment. Then he pulls his hand back to raise the pint on his lips.

”I’m so gonna buy you something with beets next time. Just – you know, on principle.”

Will chokes on his beer, laughter bursting out in between.

+

Mr. O’Brien brings bowls of stew on a tray.

”Enjoy your meal, lads – if your pints need fillin’, come find me. Oi! Harvey, hands off the ornament, I see you! Back off!”

Cursing, he storms back to the counter.

Tom snickers. ”I love this place.”

Will can’t bring himself to disagree.

+

They eat in companionable silence – or at least in relative silence for a while because Tom’s eager to tell him about customers in the store; he knows a bit about everybody which is absolutely no surprise to Will.

” - seriously thought she was gonna shove that tomato down my throat – but what does she even know, she’s _allergic_ to ’em anyway.”

Tom’s exuberant whenever he tells stories, and Will loves seeing him like this, so completely in his element; rich colour flares on him, his gaze is ablaze bright blue and golden, rosy spots glowing on his features, he talks and gestures with his spoon, _bubbling and full of life and so, so vibrant._

At first, when Will didn’t know him very well, it used to annoy him. It dug under his skin. Just a little.

_How wrong he was._

He understood it later, the need, the comfort it brought to Tom and to others, the desire to make others laugh even in the middle of all that bleakness and brutality.

In war time, out of all coping mechanisms Will had seen until then, Tom just -

Tom stripped him bare, unarmed him, wore him down, made his walls crumble in few days.

He’d been scarred and tired and withdrawn from Somme, and Tom just was so unashamedly himself, even there in the trenches. A breath of fresh air, a reminder. _A precious one. Coarse, funny, flawed, stubborn, loud and so very kind_ and Will had stumbled.

He had _fallen._

_I loved you, even then. Didn’t really know why but I did._

_But I do._

Suddenly fingers tap on Will’s wrist and he meets those sparkling eyes across the table.

”What, am I borin’ you or something?” Tom asks, grinning.

”No. Just listening,” Will replies truthfully with a hum.

”Dunno, you’ve listened to me a lot.”

”I don’t mind.”

Their gazes move toward each other, a magnetic pull, like they really can’t help it. Air turns humid thick, syrup sweet and it holds certain heaviness of _inevitability._

Something hard settles in the base of Will’s throat, makes it difficult to breathe. ”No, I don’t mind at all,” he repeats with a rough voice. _I’ll never grow tired of it, of this, of you._

For a second, Tom gazes back, his eyes turning fervent and star-bright, dark around the irises.

Then someone roars with laughter near the counter and the moment moves on.

”Nah, it’s kinda rubbish, you’ve heard all my best stories,” Tom says and playfully nudges Will’s foot under the table.

”Heard all the bad ones, too.”

”Pfft, _oi,_ what’s that now, what bad ones, I don’t have any.” Tom pauses and makes a face. ”Wait, no, yeah, the one with the whole water run thing is kinda awful.”

”It’s – up there.”

”It’s got a squirrel in it, though.”

”Which was probably rabid.”

”Ooh, that would’ve turned out so wicked – can you imagine? What a sad fuckin’ end. Bitten by a rabid squirrel in France in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere.”

 _God, this man._ Will can’t really understand how their conversations end up on these paths but he delights in absolutely all of it. Soaks in it. It’s still funny, silly, light.

”We had rats, too,” Will remarks mildly.

”Yeah, now imagine ’em all rabid nibblin’ on you. Like Wilko.”

”God, fucking Wilko.”

Tom giggles. ”Yeah, poor sod.”

+

Twenty minutes later the pub’s door opens and a couple of young fellows wander inside in worn-out coats.

Will doesn’t really pay attention until one of them freezes and stares at their table, wide-eyed. He elbows his companion and nods at them.

Before Will can tense up, they wander to their table.

”Blimey, can’t believe it,” one of the men says to Will. Tom stops eating and looks up at them, puzzled. ”It’s you. _Fuck_ \- ”

”Dunno if he remembers us, mate,” his companion drawls, all wide vowels and coarse consonants not really fitting behind his bad teeth.

Then it clicks in Will’s head. He recognizes them. Their voices. From one of the worst days of his entire life. The memory drenches him with ice-cold water.

_The convoy._

”You’re Captain Smith’s privates,” he manages to say.

”Former privates, thanks very much,” corrects the one with bad teeth.

”Oh, sorry,” says his companion with brown eyes and gestures himself. ”Angus Rossi’s my name – and this git here is Charlie Cooke.”

”I can introduce myself, _wanker_.”

”I know, but my way was quicker, just fuckin’ deal with it, all right.” Rossi turns to their table again, serious. ”You’re the bloke who had to deliver the message to the Devons.”

Will’s heart is suddenly pounding, he turns to Tom.

”I – I met them after – right after - ”

_After you died._

Rossi glances at Will and explains: ”This fella climbed onto our truck around the country side after we had to take a break ’cause a goddamn tree was in the way.”

”It was the bloody farmhouse, wasn’t it, with the dead dog on the yard?” Cooke asks, scratching his chin.

”Yeah.”

Will’s head is still swaying. ”How can you remember, you saw me once - ”

Rossi looks at them, suddenly deathly serious. ”I’ve got a good memory – besides once you see a bloke on a hopeless mission, you tend to remember his face. You also don’t just forget when he tells you he’s gotta a deliver a message to save 1600 fucking men before they all get slaughtered.”

”Especially when he just lost a mate, or something. Wasn’t that what Hathaway said? Helped him move ’is body ’n all.”

 _God._ Will feels like someone’s punched him in the gut. He’s rattled, his nerves raw again. Sour nausea rolls in the hollow of his stomach. Too much, he wasn’t prepared for any of _this._

Across him, Tom’s face has drained all colour. He stares at them. ”I’m – wait, am I the mate?” he says weakly, and now Rossi and Cooke gape at him.

”You what?”

”You’re the one who died?”

”Yeah? Well, I bloody well didn’t, did I – the rest of your convoy found me and took me to the nearest aid post.”

They gawk at Tom, and then Cooke mutters to Rossi: ”Bet it was fucking Spencer’s unit, the wanker showed up late to fucking everything...”

Rossi ignores Cooke. ”Never mind fucking Spencer, shut up – did you deliver the message?”

Will looks at them, their anxiety. Strange, he thinks, that even now, months and months afterwards, it still follows him. The rows of eerie white chalk sand. Dust in his mouth. Adrenaline burning in his veins. _Running on the trench._

”Yeah,” Will says finally. ”I did.”

It still matters.

Both of the men relax. ”Oh, thank Christ. We made bets, you know.”

”Yeah, about the sullen mopey chap on our truck who we picked up from middle of fuckin’ nowhere.”

”Yeah, it was - ” Rossi falters, unable to find a proper term and says to Tom: ”I’m glad you’re not dead. And I’m glad you made it, too. We wondered.”

”Glad to see you made it out, too,” Will says and then feels silly for pointing out the obvious.

”Yeah. Not without total losses, though.”

Cooke gestures at his left arm – or what’s left it. His coat’s sleeve is neatly folded upwards, secured with a safety pin. ”See, now I’m all wobbly on this side. Can’t even bloody swim no more.”

”Oh, like you swam so much before,” Rossi drawls dryly, rolls his eyes and turns to Will and Tom again, shifting his weight to other leg. ”Well, sorry for interruptin’ your dinner – me and Charlie are just passin’ by. But we had to say something.” He falters again. ”That we remember ya.”

_On that day on April, 1917._

Will’s throat burns. ”Thank you.”

Rossi examines them before apparently throws caution to the wind and asks: ”Wanna grab a drink here sometime?”

Before Will can even form a sensible response, Tom flashes a grin. ”We – me ’n Scho – we come ’ere pretty often. Scho?”

A little touched, Will nods. ”That’d be nice.”

The thin scar on Rossi’s cheek stretches when he smiles. Will’s seen scarred men from the war before but this one at least looks like it’s well-worn expression. Not rusty.

”Sounds like a deal.” Something seems to occur to Rossi because he raises his eyebrow. ”Your name is Scho?”

”Schofield,” he clarifies. ”William Schofield. And this is Tom Blake.”

”Didn’t let you introduce yourself either, huh?” Cooke drawls to Tom, who just shrugs.

Rossi elbows Cooke sharply. ”C’mon, Charlie, we’re already late.”

”Wha – what are you even on about, was just waiting for you to stop yappin’, _Christ_.”

Rossi is apparently very used to that because he just cheerfully says to Will and Tom: ”See you two later then?”

They wave them goodbye.

+

They leave the pub and walk down the street toward the flat.

”Captain Smith’s privates, huh.”

”Yes,” Will humors him as he rummages his tin, hands a cigarette to Tom and leans to help him light it. The match catches and warm red-orange glow flickers across their faces.

Tom takes in a short drag, scrunches his nose. ”You were a sullen bastard?” he asks, and his tone is mild, almost gentle.

Will stops in mid-step, that ice-cold tendril slithering around his chest. Smoke clogging his air-ways. Remembers how it felt in the truck. How alone he was. How deeply agony cut into him, in the very hollows of his body. When he counted the seconds, dragging on and on, _they had to move faster and it wasn’t enough, no one helped him with the TRUCK -_

Tom realizes he’s stopped and pauses, now looking worried. Touches his forearm.

”You had – you had just - ” Will bites his tongue, steadies his painful breath, swallows down the chalk and tears. Looks away for a moment. ”I was alone. Captain Smith came and ordered me to come with him. I had to leave you _behind.”_

Their eyes meet and Tom looks instantly guilty. ”I – shite, sorry, Scho, I didn’t mean it like that.”

”No, it’s – it’s not that. Can’t fault them for thinking that. I think I yelled at them.”

”You what?” Tom goggles at him. Will’s more centered now, but his lungs feel tighter, sort of fragile. He can’t quite get enough breath, like on that day. ”Yelled at them? Why’d you do that?”

_You had just died._

(felt like a torn-off limb)

_I couldn’t grieve._

(too much, too fast, too hectic, and the loss ached and spread deeper until everything hurt)

_They were loud. They were grating on me. They didn’t take it seriously._

(running out of time, had to reach the devons, no matter what)

_They didn’t hurry._

Many reasons, seeped with the unbearable crushing grief that had scraped Will’s insides _raw._

Will smiles wryly, but Tom gets it. They are soldiers after all. They know what it’s like. To wait. To be bored. To be annoyed and frustrated.

”Rowdy, huh? Sure the ones at the aid post were too, a bunch of tossers.” Tom nods toward the shining yellow windows of Henry’s pub. ”They seemed kinda nice, though, right?”

”They weren’t bad. Offered me a drink on the truck.”

”Well, good, you fuckin’ deserved one. Was that okay? I mean – seein’ them? Maybe seein’ them again for those drinks or something?”

Will thinks about it. Takes a drag of his cigarette. ”Yeah. I think so.”

He means it.

+

Joe’s not home when they get back to the apartment.

The walls are dyed dark blue, lights that pour outside between the curtains create a faint yellow haze around the surfaces, like a glint from gold coins in fairy tales.

Tom’s obviously tired; he gets clumsier, and sure enough, he slumps onto the couch the first chance he gets as Will goes around putting on some of the lights.

”Scho?”

”What?” Will asks, distracted and sits beside Tom. Tom gives out a content sigh and leans against Will, burying his head on the crook between Will’s neck and shoulder. The tip of his nose is still cold from the outside. ”You know you’re going to have a sore neck tomorrow.”

”...don’t really give a damn, not gonna lie.”

Will finds out – rather unsurprised – that he doesn’t really care much about his own position either. He sinks deeper into the couch, lets himself enjoy Tom’s warm, solid weight against his side, the steady rise of his chest. The familiar sound of his breathing evening out, beat by beat. _In, out._

He’s on the verge of falling asleep, surrendering to it, fatigue pulling him further and further.

”Scho?” Tom’s voice is so very soft now, barely a coherent word.

”Mmh.”

”Tell me a verse?”

”Which one do you want?”

”Have you found any new ones?”

Will considers; his mind moving in lazy, tired circles, grasping at off-rhymes.

”Not new, but… I liked it.”

”Tell it to me, then?”

Will turns his head towards Tom, it’s an old thing, an old comfort.

” _My river runs to thee,_ ” he murmurs, his voice rasping in the stillness of the room, the curling strands of Tom’s hair tickling his lips, ” _blue sea, wilt welcome me? My river waits reply, Oh sea, look graciously! I’ll fetch thee brooks, From spotted nooks – say, sea, take me.”_

Tom’s breathing has slowed now in contentment, the long lashes resting on the golden freckles on his cheekbones. Rose red, _so very lovely,_ and Will senses he’s still awake. Tom angles his head so that Will’s shoulder presses against his cheek and their eyes meet in the half-light.

_Infinite blue. Complete trust. Affection. Honesty._

So raw and sincere it physically hurts Will to witness it. _Humbled by all of it, like he’s been undone every single time he’s seen it._

There’s just a breath between them, an inch of space. Tom’s eyelashes flutter, and for one _senseless_ moment, Will thinks he can see Tom’s eyes flicker briefly to his mouth, but he can’t be too sure.

”Scho?”

It’s so soft, barely audible, barely touching Tom’s lips.

”Yes?”

Will thinks his own hoarse voice dissolves into smoke, into wisps of air. The liquid ink blue in Tom’s eyes pulls him in by threads, takes him apart and sets him into tranquillity.

_Home._

He can _hear_ the hitch in Tom’s breathing, the break in between. Tom’s teeth catch onto his own bottom lip and he seems to hesitate, even for one moment before giving up and nestling in closer.

Will exhales, melting into the contact.

”You all right?” he hears Tom whisper into the fabric of his shirt. Will knows he doesn’t just mean what happened today, but… everything. It’s been huge, harrowing and _frightening_ but somehow they’ve clawed their way ashore alive.

”I am,” Will replies back quietly and God, how much he means it.

Tom relaxes and makes another soft noise, a hum, and comfortable silence surrounds them.

Somehow their hands find each other. Their fingers intertwine, like in a prayer, and Will’s attention drifts to where they’re joined. Examines the details idly, marvelling. Their hands are rough over all, calloused, with worn prints on palms. Tiny white scars, little nicks, memories of a life lived thus far.

Will lifts Tom’s hand just a little to see better in the fading light, his thumb brushes over the jagged edges of a wound scabbing on Tom’s index finger.

”It looks better,” he murmurs softly, his thumb going over the back of Tom’s hand and in response, Tom’s fingers wrap around his.

”Feels better, too.”

Will can feel Tom’s breath on the sensitive skin of his neck. Sleepy, calm, reassuring. _Alive._

Later Will thinks it could’ve been exhaustion. A long day. Seeing Captain Smith’s former privates, the reminder of that day and how it felt. Maybe it’s his yearning and affection stripping back layers on the walls around him.

_Excuses._

Yet it’s none of them. It’s natural. It’s an instinct to comfort, to be there for him.

Absently like it’s a second nature and so very tender, he lifts Tom’s hand to his lips and presses a gentle kiss on the knuckles. Tom hums in response, completely unfazed. Or perhaps he’s just tired as well.

Still, Will murmurs: ”We should go to sleep. It’s an early morning tomorrow.”

Tom watches him, the corner of his mouth curling into a sweet smile.

+

Somehow it’s just that easy.

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've come to realize this fic is just me violently shoving all my self-indulgent headcanons and fix-fic daydreams into this  
> It's spiralled so hard out of control like seriously. It still baffles me that I ever thought this story would be 2 chapters and now it's like 45,000 words WHAT, I'm insane and I don't know what I'm doing, I feel like I'm holding it together with tape and some sticks. But I love writing this, I can't even begin to tell you how much and it means a world to me that people seem to like it, too. You guys have brightened my weeks so much and I'm so grateful for all the kind feedback. Thank you!! <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will & Tom visit the girls and Mary.

Will goes to meet the girls as scheduled.

It tore at his heart at first, filled him with something bittersweet and helpless to the brim before it all settled into new normalcy, bit by bit.

It goes on like that.

He visits several times a week and spends time with Sophie and Lottie – at first their hesitance felt like poking at bleeding wounds – ( _like when he came back) –_ before they got used to the new routine; they bustle and tell him excitedly what they’ve seen and what they’ve done since the last time they saw each other.

”We were at the Piccadilly circus!” Sophie squeals and tugs at Will’s sleeve. ”They had pony rides there!”

”And carousel!” Lottie chirps and then they proceed to show him all the gifts their grandparents had gotten them.

Their new treasures are shiny pressed pictures of flowers, butterflies and fairies. The girls keep them in an old candy box along with some acorns, pictures of beautiful gowns, cut from newspapers.

”They are very pretty,” Will agrees and sits on the floor to study the new glossy pictures with them.

He gives them the little wooden birds Tom’s carved in his free-time. Tom had worried about them – but Will thinks they are charming. Perhaps clumsy in design, yes, but they are round and quite adorable if Will’s honest.

(in his opinion they don’t exactly look like they’ve flown into a wall but the beaks are a bit crooked, much to Tom’s dismay)

The girls keep the birds in their doll house.

+

Sometimes it’s not easy.

Sometimes the girls have difficult days, so there are tears, wobbling lips and leaving _hurts,_ but Will always stays until they fall asleep. He reads them a bedtime story, kisses the top of their heads, tucks them in and just stays.

It’s not easy at first.

But it slowly changes into acceptance. New normal.

Bit by bit.

+

Mary is better now than before; more relaxed, more open and she smiles when Will visits.

”You look better,” she says in a way of greeting.

”You as well,” he replies and he means it. She does, and he’s glad to see it. The gauntness, the exhaustion that gripped them both in their claws has abated, and he’s relieved to see that they were _right._

Despite everything that has happened, he has no intention of going back to what was.

Mary doesn’t ask directly but Will can see the smug, _amused_ question in her face whenever he catches her. Not that she bothers being subtle about it in her own home.

”Honestly, William,” she huffs like she thinks Will is being obtuse on purpose. He probably is.

”No.”

The answer doesn’t please her but she’s very quick-witted and more cunning than Will would’ve liked.

”Take him with you the next time you visit,” she suggests – only Will thinks it’s not really a suggestion.

He closes the book he’s been leafing through to glance at her over the cover, slightly annoyed.

”Why?”

Mary raises a delicate eyebrow.

”Why?” she repeats with a scoff. ”Because you are a stubborn fool who does not do _anything_ even though there’s a very real, very possible chance it would make you ha - ” She closes her mouth with a click and narrows her eyes at him but he knows she’s not serious about it, merely irritated.

”I’ve never said it’s clever.”

”No, you certainly have not. Good God above, I think I am graying and it’s all because of your idiotic _stubbornness.”_

She scowls at him, her lips pursed but he’s seen such expressions on her face with more genuine anger and fury. This – this is frustration and irritation.

Will sighs, not really knowing whether he should be annoyed as well for her meddling or amused that she’s doing it at all.

”I’ll ask him,” he says as a compromise. ”But if he doesn’t want to, I won’t force him.”

”That’s fair, I suppose. The girls have asked for him.” She hesitates. ”And...I’d like to see him again as well.”

+

When Will brings it up with Tom, Tom grows quiet. _Thoughtful._

”Would that be okay?” he asks, shifting his weight to the other foot before resuming to fold their freshly laundered clothes. ”I mean – s’not… – hold on, wait, this is your shirt, right?”

”Yeah, thank you, give it here.”

”Look at this, think the last button’s ready to come right off. But still – it’s not overstepping?”

”No. She asked. And the girls have asked. They are looking forward to magic tricks.”

”Shit, I have to figure out new one, they’re gonna get bored with the coin.”

”Tom.”

”Well, how many times d’you wanna watch some coin disappearin’ and coming out of your ear?After a few times you’re not gonna be all that impressed anymore.”

”It’s _magic,”_ Will replies patiently, amusement tugging his lips into a smile.

” _Still._ I’d be a bloody shoddy magician, wouldn’t I, if I just did one thing, right?”

”I don’t think they’d complain.”

”Well, s’about integrity _,_ innit? On my honor as a – a magician? Which I guess is what I am now. Oh, I think this is mine.” Tom holds another shirt against his chest to measure if it’s short enough to be his.

”It is. Your socks, here.”

”Oh, thanks. No new holes, how about that.”

”Don’t jinx it.”

”Your big toe stuck out in the last one.”

”Which is why I said don’t jinx it,” Will says, smiling through it. Tom glances at him and they continue folding their clothes by the basket, side by side. ”So would you? Like to come with me, next time?”

”Oh, I didn’t even answer, did I? Yeah.” Tom gazes at him sideways, his face open and soft. ”I will.”

Will nods, a burst of gratitude, affection mixing inside of him. ”Thank you.”

”Yeah, such _hardship,”_ Tom teases him, his eyes twinkling and playfully throws a roll of socks at Will.

+

_It’s all right._

_+_

All the leaves have nearly fallen, the ground is a beautiful patchwork of rusted browns, yellows, oranges and reds. The trees are naked by the streets.

Tom isn’t exactly nervous on the day they visit Will’s daughters, but he’s quieter _. Contemplative._ He prepares another basket, tugging another piece of cloth on it and Will’s heart squeezes in his chest.

 _Of course._ Of course Tom does this.

”You don’t have to,” he says gently to Tom as he pulls the coat on.

”I know, I know. But - ” Tom bites his lower lip, looking flushed, uncertain, glancing at the basket again. ”But I wanna. It’s silly, I know, but _still_. It’s _jam._ We’ve got lots of it. Wait, did they like jam?”

”Everything sweet, Tom, including every jam on the face of the planet, I reckon.”

”Okay, good. Just – you know, checking. In case this one would be the worst or something.”

Hot blood pumps in Will’s head, his knees not quite weak but he hasn’t ever imagined that affection and fondness for someone would feel so _alive_ and ever-present.

They check that they have everything, keys and the basket – ” _Shite,_ my scarf! It’s fucking cold. Do you need yours?” ”Yeah, might as well, thanks.” ”The blue one? You’ll get the blue one.” – and they finally leave.

+

It’s a chorus of joyful screams and giggles.

Then the chorus changes into a tangle of limbs and even tighter hugs, toothy grins and shining eyes.

If Tom’s stunned because of the warm welcome, he doesn’t show it – he _melts,_ his grin is just as wide as the girls’s and he bows down to pick Sophie up.

”Oooh, look at you! You’re so tall now, a proper bean pole, aren’t ya?”

”I’m not!” Sophie squawks, giggling and spreads her arms like she’s flying in Tom’s arms. Will thinks he sees Tom wince a little as if in pain, then he adjusts his stance but it appears to pass as Tom continues to hold Sophie up.

”Me, too! Me, too!” Lottie pipes up from Will’s arms where he’s propped her on his hip. ”Da?”

”Yes, sweetheart?”

”Up, up, up?”

Will lifts her and she mimics Sophie, waving her tiny arms like a little bird, and he twirls her around. She squeals with laughter.

_It’s easier now._

At times it’s jarring how different it is not to live there anymore, it used to feel like rusted clockwork parts in him, but now… _now it’s easier. Bit by bit._

”Careful not to hit your head anywhere,” Mary’s voice says near the doorway. Tom’s head snaps up and he carefully sets Sophie back on the ground.

”Aww, already?” Sophie pouts, disappointed.

”Ah, you know I’m so old, need to rest my back before it goes all poppin’ off place. Maybe later?” Tom promises and flashes a reassuring smile before he turns to Mary, faltering. ”Uh. Hi. Scho – Scho said I – I could come along?”

”I know,” Mary says, the corner of her mouth twitching into what is definitely a smile. ”I know because I invited you.”

Tom blinks. ”Oh. ’Course. Sorry. So, this is for you.” He hands her the basket, and her eyes widen.

She takes it, tugs the cloth away and stares. Will leans in as well to glance curiously – Tom’s packed two glass jars of raspberry jam,neatly tied again with ribbons. Somehow he’s managed to sneak in a small tin of candies as well, probably from his grocery store.

Mary relaxes and shakes her head.

”You’re impossible,” she says, her smile rising. ”You didn’t have to.”

Tom’s cheeks turn pink now, highlighted by the outside glow. ”Yeah, well – we got – Joe visited Mum a while back and she sent us a few jars. It’s raspberry. Wasn’t sure if you or the girls like raspberry or plum better. Hope you like raspberry. It’s good on a scone?” The colour deepens. ”Sorry, I’m rambling.”

”It’s wonderful, thank you,” Mary says genuinely, and Will finds himself relaxing as well. ”Well, come on now, don’t stay in the hallway, it’s a bit drafty there. Girls, come along.”

As the girls skip toward the living room, Mary in tow, Tom breathes out, the whole length of his spine giving in. Will stops beside him, a little concerned and murmurs: ”Are you nervous?”

”No. I mean – I dunno why, maybe a bit?” Tom winces, guilty. ”Sorry. That sounds bad, but it’s not – it’s not _this,_ I swear it’s not Mary or the girls – it’s just me bein’ a complete plonker. Everything here is lovely, Scho, it’s just - ” He bites his lip, looking almost urgent, ” - my brain’s goin’ too fast. It’ll settle, but I swear I’m havin’ a great time, Scho, I am.”

Will examines Tom, his worry lingering. ”All right,” he finally says. ”Tell me if it gets worse. I’ll help.”

Tom glances at him, his nervous expression softening. ”Thanks.” Then, because Will should’ve seen it coming, very familiar mischief and amusement bleed in like Tom can’t quite help himself. ”How d’you plan that?” he teases.

Will shrugs. ”I’ll figure out something.” He leans in slightly: ”Maybe I’ll get Myrtle here.”

Tom brightens. ”Ooh, that’d be brilliant.” He sighs, forlorn. ”Fuck, I really miss that ol’ girl.”

Will bumps his shoulder gently to Tom’s. ”You’ll see her soon enough. Come on?” he asks quietly, once again resisting that gnawing desire to hold Tom’s hand.

Tom looks up, his smile blossoming. ”Yeah. Thanks, Scho.”

+

”So, have you found a sweetheart yet, Tom?”

Tom chokes on his tea.

Will shoots a sharp look at Mary across the living room. _She’s meddling again,_ in the most obvious way and it grates in Will’s jaw.

Mary meets his eye flatly and sips her tea. Daring him. She has nothing to lose at this point, and she’s apparently determined to discover things on her own since Will is no help.

”Uh, sorry _what?”_ Tom manages, his eyes wide and startled.

”Why, you have stayed quite a bit now in London,” Mary continues briskly, completely unbothered. ”Any new acquaintances? Has anyone caught your eye yet?”

Tom’s face turns bright scarlet and then pales to horrible shade of ill white, his whole form stilling in the arm chair.

”I - ” It’s such a shaky sound. He closes his mouth, swallowing. ”No, I – don’t think so. Not – nothin’ like that.”

”Really?” Mary asks and sets her teacup down. ”Have you met any lovely ladies while working for example? Or anyone fawning over your counter?”

A strange look crosses on Tom’s face only for a moment – Will has seen many of Tom’s expressions during the war; pure panic, horror, grief _,_ distress, fear, regret. Resignation.

He’s seen so _many,_ but this one –

This one grips Will by the very core of him.

_It’s despair._

Haunting, real, near something drowning. _Helplessness._

” _Tom - ”_

”No, ma’am,” Tom replies, his voice uneven, scratchy that has nothing to do with the tea scalding his throat. ”Don’t think so. Most – most of ’em are sweet ol’ nans, so… no.”

It’s a weak joke, one that doesn’t match Tom’s demeanor at all.

Mary’s brow furrows, and Will tries to catch her attention – _not to continue, please stop, it’s making Tom uncomfortable, whatever you’re trying to do, stop -_

”Why?” Mary sounds genuinely puzzled, impatient in her confusion. ”You are a strapping young man, _available_ for starters _,_ there really is not even one interested?”

”Mary, stop - ” Will warns.

A muscle in Tom’s jaw quivers. ”I - ” He looks away, stares at the tea cup in his hands. ”Dunno. There’s no one. Interested or – or otherwise,” he mumbles, his thumb scrubbing the porcelain, his throat working. ”Sorry.”

Mary flinches. ”No, don’t –don’t be, _I’m_ sorry. I shouldn’t have pried, that was inappropriate. I’m sorry, Tom,” she says, now looking guilty.

”No, no. S’all right.” Tom smiles, but it’s weak. No, not weak. Will’s heart stops. _Hopeless._ ”It’s an understandable question. I get why you asked. But no, sorry.”

”You don’t have to apologize for that,” Mary says sternly, her mouth pursed in a line. ”It’s _their_ loss.”

That bleak hopelessness, deep despair flashes again in those eyes. Will frowns _,_ awful, cold uneasiness sinking in his stomach. ”Tom - ”

Tom inhales sharply as if remembering where he is now, faint colour returning to his face.

”Sorry. That was a bit of a downer, yeah?” He makes a visible effort to smile now. It stretches, almost painfully. He brushes his cheek quickly against his shoulder. ”Anyway – can I show off?”

Mary blinks, confused, not knowing what that even means but Will, who is still watching him with concern, goes along. ”Already?” he asks gently.

Tom shrugs. ”Dunno, seemed like a proper time?” he says, he’s _asking_ Will, question in his eyes, not quite nervous, not quite pleading, but… tentative.

Will understands. He does, although he’s not quite sure what happened just now, but he understands _this._

”If you’re ready. Go on ahead.”

Tom grins, now looking more like himself and fishes out a deck of cards from his pocket. It’s Joe’s old deck, Will’s learnt. The cards themselves are sleek, worn by use and many, many games and they smell faintly of cinnamon and lavender.

Mary raises an eyebrow. ”Oh, show off?” she says, amused now. ”I see now.”

Tom makes a show of shuffling the cards with practiced ease and Will has to admire the smooth flow of it, the way they move in his fingers. There’s beauty in his skill, certain level of _art_ about it.

(he wonders, however, if it’s just _tom_ that’s so magnetic and not the magic itself)

”Oh, that’s quite good.”

”He’s been insufferable,” Will snorts, but is unable to keep the warmth out of his voice.

”Well, yeah? I told you, had to expand my repertoire. Can’t just be a one-trick pony, now can I?”

Mary shakes her head again but this time her neck is not stiff, there’s no clenched jaw, just amused exasperation.

”We can work with that, absolutely,” she says, getting up from her chair. ”Girls! Uncle Tom’s practiced magic tricks, would you like to see?”

” _Magic?”_

+

Tom entertains the girls with his newly learnt card tricks in the living room – he _is_ quite good, in his element of being a performer, all vivid and natural, and the girls are absolutely enchanted.

Meanwhile Will helps Mary to carry the tray back to the kitchen.

”Why did you have to ask him that?” he asks, low with disapproval.

”It was a legitimate question, it’s not that unusual – I ask Angela and Liz that every time I see them,” Mary huffs, but then she falters. ”I didn’t mean to upset him.”

”You never do, you don’t stop to think how it affects – You were too _insistent.”_

Mary’s hackles rise, her eyes flash. ”Well, you are certainly less so, so somebody has to do something since you are not doing a thing.”

”Stop pushing it. Stop pushing _him._ It’s not going to happen.”

”Why, have you asked him?” Mary snaps.

”Just – just because I feel how I feel doesn’t mean it’s going to be reciprocated in any way - ”

Mary turns around sharply, hands on her hips, her eyes narrowed dangerously. ”William Schofield,” she starts, an edge to her tone. ”If you stopped being a stubborn blind _twit_ for a moment, you would actually see it - ”

Will’s mouth presses together flatly. ”I won’t project. No, Mary, I will _not_ do it.”

Mary grits her teeth in frustration and rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. ”Christ _God,”_ she mutters. ”Fine. I will not ask again. I will not _prod_ again. But only because it upset him and not because you think you are right, which you definitely are not.”

Will stares at her. ”Why are you so keen on this?”

Mary lifts her chin, defiant. ”Believe it or not, I’d like to see you happy,” she says dryly. ”I know it may come as a shock to you, but I _do._ You’re in love with him – I may not understand it, but obviously you are and you are such an unbelievable fool about it, it actually hurts to witness. But I have no ulterior motive beyond that. It did not work out between us even though we gave it our best and I hold no grudge over that.”

”You don’t?” Will manages to ask, bewildered and dizzy with everything that’s happening. He’s not even sure how the hell this conversation ended up at this point.

”No. I may have vented and ranted at Angela – poor dear, she weathered all of it with such grace – and no, she doesn’t know _why,_ I did not tell her, but she knows only what matters. There’s no grudge, William. Like I said, you are the father of my children, you were an important part of my life so I grieved that. But… this is _better._ It is.”

Will doesn’t know why, but the unknown stinging, sensitive part inside him seems to heave out a breath, _a relieved exhale._ He knows they agreed to _this_ but it’s still good to hear there’s no resentment left rotting between them. That it’s really all right.

”So take that as you will,” she continues, brisk and almost lofty, ”but that’s my stance on this, whether you like it or not. So you might as well try to be happy, after everything.”

Still sort of reeling, Will accepts it, even if it jabs under his skin with needles.

He understands it, he _does,_ he believes her but -

 _She’s not right._ That’s what he tells himself, over and over, repeating it in his head until it sounds like the only option. _Like an anchor, dragging him further to the depths._

He just – _(clinging on that driftwood again)_ It’s not that easy, it’s just –

Will cannot take that risk. _He can’t._

Behind him, in the living room, he can hear the girls screeching with elated laughter.

He cannot risk _Tom._

+

For all the selfish, greedy parts in Will, Tom’s friendship is one thing, _one thing,_ he cannot risk.

+

When they return to the living room, all three of them – Tom, Sophie and Lottie – are completely focused on building a house of cards. The girls sit either side of Tom by the table, intently following as he tries to balance the card on top of the next row.

”Is it gonna fall?” Lottie whispers, clutching the hem of Tom’s shirt.

”Hope not – let’s see? I’m gonna put it...here.” Carefully, his tongue sticking out in concentration, Tom places the card on top. All three of them freeze, watching the house with bated breath. The house wavers but doesn’t crumble. They all exhale. ”Okay, wow. Look at that, huh? Thought it was gonna crash for sure. Wanna try, Sophie?”

Tom offers her a card.

She takes it, gingerly. ”What if it falls?” she asks nervously, glancing at Tom under her bangs.

”S’all right if it does. We’ll just start again and do better. More fun that way, right? There you go – easy, yeah! You got it! Amazing. Lottie, can you find us another red card?”

”Hearts?”

”Sure! Aww, that’s a pretty one, thanks, that’ll help a lot. Do you wanna try?”

”Yeah!”

”Here, you can try it there. Wait, I’ll move... Careful – yeah! There you go, _amazing._ ”

Lottie giggles, all pleased. Will watches, just as enchanted. Warmth billows into his limbs.

 _God._ It’s as if cozy colour bleeds back into the house, _orange, gold._ Silence recedes from the corners and fades, and laughter, giggles, sounds of _life_ echo from the wallpapers to the glass panels.

Seeing this – Will can’t even describe how it feels. A jumble of contentment, tenderness swell behind his ribs, rising like a tidal wave _._

_Easier. Bit by bit._

He catches Mary glancing up at him, and she just stares back, wholly unimpressed.

”Honestly, unbelievable,” he hears her mutter again and before he can reply in any way, she strides toward the trio. ”Now now, girls, let him rest, too. Hope they didn’t tire you out, Tom.”

Tom gets up from the floor, bashful. ”Nah, never. We tried to built a house, dunno how it ended up.”

”It didn’t fall! Wobbled!”

”Did you _see?”_

”We saw,” Mary replies, smiling. ”It was very lovely, girls. We can try that, later, too. Now, say thank you to Uncle Tom – I’ve heard he’s worked very hard to learn new magic tricks so we have to be grateful for his efforts.”

The girls turn toward Tom, who seems startled by the sudden attention. ”Thank you, Uncle Tom,” they chorus.

”Y – you’re welcome,” Tom stammers, flushing. ”Uh, I – I’m glad you liked ’em.”

They beam up at him before Mary herds them back to upstairs, leaving Will and Tom alone in the living room.

Tom exhales, rubbing his face with both hands.

Will can sympathize with that. ”Thank you for indulging them,” he murmurs, stepping closer. ”Told you they’d like them.”

Tom chuckles weakly. ”Yeah, yeah, you did. I know. Still.” He rubs his cheek. ”So what, I – I’m an Uncle now, huh?”

”Afraid you are,” Will agrees. ”Might as well get comfortable, they’re not letting you go ever again.”

Tom hesitates.

”Well, I don’t mind,” he replies so softly, his head tilted and there’s that heart-wrenching vulnerability about him again, something not _cracked_ but open. ”I don’t. At all. Thanks, Will.”

Will softens, something in him aching so wonderfully.

_You don’t have to thank me for that._

”You’re welcome.”

+

”It was lovely to have you here again, Tom,” Mary says when Will and Tom are putting on their coats in the hallway. There’s no lie in her voice, no pretense; she smiles at Tom, warmth reaching the fine lines around the corners of her eyes and she _means it._

_(before will wondered if it was guilt driving her but then he sees little flickers like these and comes to a conclusion that yes, she meant it. meant what she said.)_

_(then he comes to another conclusion that tom just has that effect on people)_

”Likewise, I had grand time. Thanks for inviting me,” Tom replies, awkwardly fussing with his collar that’s slightly bent. Finally after getting it right, he grins, sheepish and so utterly charming in the whole _silliness_ that is him.

_This soft idiot._

”You’re always welcome here,” Mary says firmly and Tom seems taken aback by her tone.

”Oh, what, really?” He recovers quickly and then smiles, all shy and pleased, his ears turning red again. ”That’s – that’s brilliant, thanks for thinkin’ of me.”

Mary pats him on the shoulder and then she moves to Will, her smile tightening and says: ”And you. Stop being dense, William.”

It’s not hostile. It’s not angry. It’s without teeth. It’s just an exasperated yet fond reprimand.

”I don’t know if I have much room for improvement on that department,” Will replies dryly.

”That’s _nonsense,_ and you full well know that.” The harsh annoyed furrows on her brow ease and she offers a faint smile. ”Till Thursday, then?”

”Yes. I’ll be here.”

”Good. Sophie’ll want to tell you all about her school trip. Now, enjoy the rest of your evening, gentlemen.”

They wave at the girls and Mary.

+

Will wracks his brain how to ask Tom about what happened at dinner or even if he should ask about it and then he doesn’t have the chance to ask because they get distracted by Mr. O’Brien as they visit the pub on the way home.

The pub smells strangely of honey and roasted chestnuts, which is… surprising to say the least.

Which is when Mr. O’Brien decides to give them a rather blunt announcement of sorts.

”Oh, don’t look so alarmed, lads,” Mr. O’Brien huffs and seems to stifle an urge to throw his rag at them. ”It’s a yearly thing here, at the pub. Merely to celebrate autumn and harvest and all that rot. Good year, good crops and so forth.” He scowls at Tom. ”C’mon on now, young Mr. Blake, you’re a farm boy, aren’t you?”

Tom scrunches his nose like he isn’t quite sure if he should be offended by that or not. ”I am, yeah, but didn’t figure you’d be up for harvest celebrations or anythin’ like that. Dunno, don’t seem like the type.”

Mr. O’Brien scoffs. ”Well, that shows what you lot know. _Up for harvest…_ Hmph _._ No, that’s fair, I’m not. It was Emily’s idea. Well, Emily and Toby’s, and frankly I didn’t have any damn reason to disagree. Also Toby already promised to bring his mates to play some music for us so dancing. Suppose it’s just an excuse but it’s good enough as any. Better than that chap with the god-awful guitar last year.”

”Your brother played a fiddle, didn’t he?” Will asks and Mr. O’Brien looks surprised.

”Aye, he does. A damn good with the thing, too, if I can say that without the bastard overhearing me.”

”Sounds fun,” Tom says brightly, looking cheered. ”So how ’bout it, Scho?”

”Sure, if we won’t end up stumbling into a ditch.”

”Good God,” says Mr. O’Brien flatly.

”Pfft, no way, we’re not gonna end up in any,” says Tom.

Will raises an amused eyebrow at him, challenging him, and Tom breaks into laughter. ”We’re not! C’mon, Scho? We’re proper workin’ lads, now, can’t stay up all night drinking, right?”

”Good _God,”_ says Mr. O’Brien again.

Will ignores him, as he’s just watching Tom. ”Fine. But I’m not giving you piggyback ride on the way back home,” he says half-heartedly, knowing full well his resolve breaks the moment the situation needs it.

_(they’re just empty words, i’d carry you anywhere)_

_(was ready to carry you to the nearest aid post on that farm yard)_

Tom beams like he knows it, too, and he playfully crosses his heart.

_Sunset reflecting through the stained glass into that ocean blue of his gaze._

”You’re on, it’s a deal!”

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately this is something of a filler but i wanted to visit Mary and the girls briefly, BUT I'm so excited about the next chapter, we're finally, FINALLY getting somewhere and I hope I can deliver and make it worth at least a bit cause this is so LONG and they've barely HELD HANDS. You guys have been so patient and sweet during this whole ride and I'm so so grateful for your support.  
> Just... just thank you, you all. <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will & Tom attend the harvest party at the pub and things happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy the chapter.

It becomes obvious very quickly just how excited Tom is about the harvest celebration at Mr. O’Brien’s pub and Will’s glad to see it.

Neither of them has mentioned what happened at dinner – Tom doesn’t explain and really, he doesn’t have to, and Will doesn’t want to poke at the obviously bleeding wounds either.

At times, Will catches it, glimpses of that broken _despair,_ just a flicker of shadows, haunting in the corners. It tears at Will, he wants to _ask -_

But then -

\- he just doesn’t.

_Coward. A goddamn bloody fucking coward in every way._

But Tom’s excited _,_ and he isn’t even pretending he doesn’t find it hilarious that Mr. O’Brien is participating in the whole October harvest.

”You know he wouldn’t be caught dead within fifty miles from a farm,” he snickers as he hands the morning paper to Will. ”Besides it’s not like he even – wait Scho, I forgot to take the - can you give me – yeah, that one, thanks.”

Will hands him the sports records section from the paper. ”The team doesn’t seem to be doing too well by the looks of the score.”

”Yeah, probably played all rubbish.”

”Oh, what are you two talking about?” Joe asks curiously as he pours himself coffee and sits by the table.

”Nothin’, mind your own business,” Tom throws back with a smile as he spreads the sport records section better on the kitchen table. ”Nah, just makin’ fun of Henry, that’s all. What’s with that then, you going out?”

”Why do you ask?” Joe asks, too idly and stirs his coffee that’s almost too casual.

Tom seems to think so too, because he squints at Joe. ”You’re way too clean. Styled your hair and all. S’all floppy. It’s kinda suspicious.”

”Hey now, Tommy, don’t be rude, I’m making a real effort here.” Joe takes a sip of his coffee to hide his smile behind the porcelain rim and really, Will changes his mind, these Blake brothers don’t have much of a poker face, neither of them.

”Ugh, dunno about that.”

”Going to stay up late?” Will asks instead, trying very hard not to be amused by the banter.

Joe brightens, now dropping all pretense. ”Yeah, actually I am – most likely, but not for school work this time, thank God. I’m going to see Maggie.”

”Oh, she’s coming here?” Tom asks, surprised.

”Mmh. Well, not _here,_ in London in general, genius. Like I’m letting her see _this,_ honestly, are you joking?”

”Oi, what’s that, we’ve cleaned! Not a sock in sight, now is there! Haven’t seen you takin’ out any trash in a while.”

Joe laughs and ruffles Tom’s hair so it’s even a wilder mess. ”Yeah yeah. I know and I appreciate your efficiency. Gotta be your influence, is it, Will?”

”Oi! Why’re you makin’ me sound like a bludger, Joe?”

”No, I can’t take any credit,” Will replies mildly and turns another page on the newspaper.

Joe laughs; his weary thin features are softer now. Happiness suits him. He pats the top of Tom’s head again and Tom makes a face up at him.

”You’re the worst, aren’t ya. Awful brother – yeah, you _are,_ don’t give me that face.”

Joe’s expression eases. ”It’s not gonna be forever, Tommy. Just a little while. Then I’ll be taking out the trash, don’t worry.”

”Pfft. Yeah, right.” But Tom scrunches his nose at him in playful mischief.

”You two have fun at Henry’s. Don’t get arrested.”

”Yeah? What’d we get arrested for anyway?”

Joe laughs. ”I don’t know, you’re an awfully creative bloke, Tommy but don’t use it for that for the love of God – don’t get naked in the middle of the street or something.”

” _What?_ Sod off!”

+

They hear the music before they see the pub; a fiddle, a drum _._ To Will it does sound like a folk song and Tom speculates the song could be _Swallowtail Jig_.

”Sounds like it anyway,” Tom says with a thoughtful frown and strains to listen. ”Oh, fuck, now it’s gonna bother me.”

”You can always ask them later.”

”They’ll probably slap me for bein’ an ignorant bastard.”

They turn the corner and see the pub – it glows orange-golden like a pumpkin lantern; cozy light spills on the cobblestones and they can smell something that reminds them of spiced, mulled wine and gingerbread.

Inside, people already chatting among themselves, sipping their drinks and in a nearby corner, a small band plays their instruments; a fiddle, a bodhrán drum, a guitar, and the swell of music is so delightfully _positive._

It’s a jig – a rhythm full of joyful, tapping sound, free _,_ and people are dancing, jacket hems and skirts fluttering like bird wings.

Tom brightens. ”Oh! It is _Swallowtail Jig_. Bloody knew it. C’mon, Scho, Henry’s there – ”

They make their way to the counter, and Mr. O’Brien greets them, looking more relaxed than they’ve seen him in weeks.

”Evening, lads. How about a drink?”

”Already?” Will asks, amused.

”Let’s not pretend otherwise, no one comes here for music.”

”Dunno, he plays kinda well, doesn’t ’e?” Tom asks leaning closer.

”Don’t let him hear it, I mean it, young Mr. Blake, can’t let him have big head.” But Mr. O’Brien winks at him, chuckling under his moustache. ”Now shoo, make room for others.”

”We’ll talk to you later, Henry.”

”I count on it, lads.”

They find another table, their own is already occupied by a group of workers.

”I kinda like it, this whole thing,” Tom says finally when they settle side by side and Will leans a bit to the left to hear him better. ”How ’bout you?”

Will doesn’t have to think about it. The song pounds under their skin, quivers into their chest cavity with each beat of the drum.

Since the war, loud noises have been… _well._

But this… Will thinks he can handle this.

He likes the drum. Its rhythmic pulse underneath it all. _It’s like a beating heart, strong and hot._

”It’s not bad.”

Tom watches him for a moment and sees the truth in there and grins. ”Shut up, you pessimist, you love it.”

Will smiles. They don’t lie, not to each other. ”I do.”

And the way Tom beams back, dimples blossoming, it’s the best reward for all of it. Then he grimaces.

”Oh shite, I forgot the fucking water – wait a bit, don’t lose our table, yeah?” he says and disappears into the crowd. Will shakes his head. Honestly, he’s not even surprised, Tom’s energy is absolutely contagious, he swears.

”Oy! Hey, Schofield, good to see you, mate!”

Will nearly jumps when someone drops to sit next to him – but it’s Rossi. He’s lost his heavy coat, and he’s smiling now, looser, more comfortable in his skin.

”Hello,” Will greets him, honestly glad to see him. ”O’Brien coaxed you here as well?”

”Don’t know if it needed much coaxing, to be honest,” Rossi says chuckling. ”Charlie heard ’booze’ and ’music’ and was ready to go. Like a sponge, that git is, I swear his liver will pop one day.”

”Is he here?”

”Yeah, he’s pestering poor O’Brien over there. See, that cowlick sticking out. What about you? Thought I saw you with someone? Was it Blake?”

”Same one, also getting a drink.”

Rossi glances at the counter. ”Oh yeah, didn’t recognize him. Poor O’Brien, getting outnumbered. So how are ya?”

”All right.”

Rossi snickers. ”Still difficult to get an answer from you, huh? So you live with him? Blake?”

”With him and his older brother.”

”Oh, aye? Well, could be worse. Me and Charlie share a place, too. Got so damn used to his fuckin’ snoring now can’t sleep without it echoin’ through the damn flat. Has some lungs, that boy. Such is life, I guess.” Rossi tilts his glass as if to toast and shakes his head.

”Such is life,” Will echoes. ”At least we are.”

”Can’t argue with that. Was a shit show, the whole thing. I don’t know if you were lucky for getting off the convoy when you did or if we were for not getting saddled with your mission.”

”No luck in there,” Will replies. ”In neither.”

Rossi pauses to look at him over his glass, his eyes thoughtful. Then he shrugs in that somber way that screams ’fair enough’. ”Yeah,” he says. ”My thoughts exactly, mate. Bullshit all around.”

Will’s thoughts drift to the rest of the convoy. To Jondalar, to the man with a thin moustache. He wants to ask about them but the weary, cynical and scarred-over part in him, under all the cracking rust knows better.

_Should know better._

They all know war devours everything, ravages and crushes it all in its maw, greedy and rancid. War cripples, damages, hurts, tears it all apart.

_There is no luck in war._

Perhaps Will is more transparent than he thought or perhaps all soldiers share it deep down because there’s still living that small persistent sliver of fragile optimism, _hope_ about survival, Rossi continues:

”Jondalar was one of those who thought you definitely made it, by the way. Woulda won the pot, honestly.”

Will looks up sharply.

Rossi stares back, unflinching. ”He got out,” he clarifies. ”Most of us did, I guess. The chaps at the front weren’t so lucky, poor sods.” He offers a grim, colourless smile and takes a sip, reminiscing. ”From our truck, Butler lost his leg from the knee down, stepped on a fucking mine, was cursing up a storm, and Wyatt inhaled some – no, wait, no, you didn’t meet Wyatt. You met Malky ’n Parry – yeah, they made it too, against all odds, yeah.”

Will nods, letting his muscles relax under his shirt. _Alive._ That’s better than most had and he’s glad to hear it.

Suddenly Rossi stops, frowns in confusion. ”Wait. Think Blake’s not doing so great over there.”

”What?” Will’s eyebrows knit together. Alarm and dread clench in the hollow of his chest. He follows Rossi’s line of sight to the other end of the pub – and he sees it, too.

_Sees Tom._

Tom’s slumped against the furthest wall, his form bent over, his other hand clutching around his stomach as if he’s _in pain –_

In a second Will’s whole body turns ice-cold. Instantly he gets on his feet without a word and makes his way to Tom. As he gets to him, he realizes Tom’s trembling, his face is clammy pale, _pained._

”Tom?” Will says, tense, putting his hand on Tom’s shoulder. ”What is it?”

Tom looks up, the movement is jerky, his breathing more shallow. His eyes are unfocused but then he realizes it’s Will and smiles faintly.

”S’nothing - ”

” _Tom.”_

”It’s just – just this stupid bastard scar actin’ up – didn’t fancy me weaseling through everyone, some arse knocked his elbow into it. _Shite_ that stung _–_ no, no, Scho, I’m fine. Really. It’ll pass.”

Still tense, Will scowls, not liking the pallid, ashen tint on Tom’s face. ”C’mon,” he says, ”let’s go sit down.”

”C’mon, stop your worrying, would you,” Tom grouses but doesn’t pull back and allows Will to lead him back to their table. Will notices Tom’s being careful of his right side. ”I’m _fine._ Just felt like a bloody kick, didn’t it – oh, hey, Rossi.”

”Hey, Blake. You doing all right?” Rossi asks, forehead creased and Will’s almost chilled to catch a glimpse of Rossi’s eyes moving up and down Tom’s torso – _looking for wounds_.

Looking for blood. It’s instinctive, an old thing to do, and Will knows it. _It chills him to the bone, but he_ _knows_ it. Oh, how he knows it.

Meanwhile Tom rolls his eyes. ”Yeah, yeah, just need to sit for a bit – Will, seriously, c’mon, what are you doing, mate?”

”Giving you water. Drink up.”

”Okay, fine, yeah, gimme. Thanks.”

Will keeps an eye on him as Tom downs a glass of water, still looking so ashen pale and faint, but the way he shoots a scolding glare at Will is reassuring.

”You’re such an old man.”

”Heard that a few times before.”

Tom lowers the glass; there’s still a hint of dull pain etched on his features that he can’t quite hide – or perhaps Will has seen too many of those expressions to notice every one of them.

”We just came here,” Tom says quietly and Will understands what he means.

”All right,” he agrees and nudges Tom with his shoulder. ”Think maybe take a little break?”

”Yeah, think so too – damn shame, I was just getting started – oh, they’re playin’ _Drunken Sailor_ now too, blimey.”

They listen Toby play fiddle on the other side of the pub, swaying and his foot tapping the rhythm.

”He’s quite good, ain’t he?” Rossi remarks, raising his glass slightly. A few minutes later Cooke makes his way to them with his drink, looking disgruntled even with something in his mouth that looks suspiciously like a muffin. ”Where the hell did you sneak that?”

Cooke sets his drink down and takes out the muffin. ”O’Brien gave it to me, back off, it’s mine, get your own, will ya? Hey,” he says to Will and Tom without missing a beat. ”So how are you two then?”

Will and Tom share a look and shrug. Cooke snorts. ”Up to no good, huh? Figures.”

”Like you’re one to talk,” Rossi remarks mildly. ”This one nearly got us kicked out by pickin’ a fight with our fucking neighbour.”

”Oi, you’re supposed to be on my side, Angus, what the hell? And it wasn’t my fault. Move your arse, would ya, I’ll sit there.”

He sits down between Rossi and Tom and shoves the muffin in his mouth.

”Disgraceful, you are,” Rossi says dryly. ”Best of the company, my arse.”

”Shaddap, I’m fucking grand. So you two – how’re you with cards?”

”Oh, bloody ace, what’re you on about?” Tom asks back grinning, already on board and Cooke responds to it with his own wide, mis-matched shark teethed smile.

_Good lord._

+

It turns out that Tom and Cooke are a force of nature just by themselves, especially when grouped together, which now in retrospect Will thinks he should’ve seen coming.

But it’s not bad, not in the slightest. Sure, they are both loud and competitive, but it’s obvious how much they’re having fun.

”Oh, you’d better pick another game, ’cause you’re fuckin’ bollocks with this one, Blake,” Cooke drawls and slams his cards on the table.

”Oi, what? Dunno ’bout that, reckon you’re just a sore loser.”

” _Sore_ \- ”

”You kinda are,” Rossi remarks idly and Cooke throws him a furious look. ”What, you _are.”_

”Yeah – but what are you all pointing it out for, mate, that’s just fucking cold!”

”You know what, it’s a bloody tie, I don’t even care,” Tom says, leans back and takes a drink. With a huff, Cooke gathers the cards, shuffles them and hides them in his pocket.

”Gonna take a leak,” he says and gets up.

”Don’t fall over anywhere,” Rossi hollers after him and Cooke gives him the finger. Rossi laughs and turns to Will and Tom. ”Sorry, chaps, I’m gonna go bother O’Brien myself now. Be right back in a bit.”

They wave him off.

Ahead Toby’s band starts another song, and Tom’s hand pauses, his face brightening as he takes in the tune.

”What’s this one?” Will asks, the corners of his mouth turning into a smile.

Tom listens the fiddle’s flowing, vivacious notes, and joy spreads on his face.

”Oh! It’s the _Glasgow Reel!_ ” He takes another gulp of his beer, sets the pint down and says to Will: ”Come to dance?”

”What?” Will doesn’t quite freeze in his surprise, but he does pause for a significant amount of time. ”But your scar - ”

”But nothin’, c’mon,” Tom insists, his jaw now set into a resolute line, but the flicker in his eyes is close to pleading. ”It’s fine now. I’ll take it easy.”

”No, you won’t,” Will deadpans.

”Okay, fine, maybe? But it happens from time to time, it’s _fine_. Besides this ain’t a ballroom, now is it, everyone’s got two left feet anyway, don’t they?”

”You included?” Will asks, so very fond, feeling his resistance already crumbling.

”Oh yeah, definitely. Promise I won’t faint or nothing. As long as you don’t shove your bony elbow into it, I’m fine. Seriously though, this is just - _dancing.”_

Will knows what he means. Of course he does. It’s about _celebration._ Enjoying themselves. Being a person, being human after all they’ve been through, together and apart.

_(not fodder for guns, not ammunition for battles – just flesh and blood and breathing)_

Will is a cautious, quiet man. He’s wary, he’s careful.

_But they are alive. Tom is alive._ They are allowed to enjoy things.

_What the hell._ So Will takes a swig; the beer leaves a stale after-taste on his tongue.

And he grabs Tom’s hand and follows him.

+

As a general rule dancing doesn’t become naturally to Will – he usually felt awkward and stiff, and it’s been a long time since he has even attempted it but this time, Tom tugs him further onto the dance floor and _oh._

It’s not exactly a slow dance, it follows the _bodhrán’_ s beat and the joyous and bubbling notes pulled from the fiddle.

Tom’s close, holding Will’s hand, fingers nearly intertwining. Sharp-edged awkwardness falls off.

_It’s easier._

They whirl and turn around the dance floor along with everyone else, step by step, almost skipping like two mischievous school boys grinning at each other.

Will feels like he’s soaring. _Care-free._ It rises out of his bones, cracks the rust loose.

And Tom -

_God._ He’s there, warm, alive, blood pumping in his veins, he’s there, with every turn and step.

The fiddle picks up, the tune turns quicker and quicker, the ground almost shakes with the people jumping and dancing -

\- they whirl and dance, grasping each other’s hands, steps on the floor -

And the song stops with one last, definite jolt.

Will and Tom stop, still holding hands, out of breath and glowing at each other. The people around them clap and whistle for the band, but Will -

Will can’t look away from Tom.

Tom’s cheeks glow rosy in the amber light, his mouth curved into a wide, brilliant grin, crinkling around his bright _bright_ eyes, he’s breathless with giddy exhilaration, and _god, Tom’s the most beautiful sight Will has ever seen_.

And Will – Will has never wanted to kiss a person so desperately in his life before. Lightning thrums under his skin, the white-hot buzzing spreading into his limbs, the air hangs heavy with sweet humidity and longing running so deep he nearly aches with it.

He can feel Tom’s breathing and he grips Tom’s sweaty hand against his own chest and it’s the most perfect thing.

”Scho – _Will - ”_ Tom breathes out, his gaze starry dark and so familiar that everything in Will, every cell and molecule in him, gravitates towards him.

He wants to touch, to kiss, to hold, to comfort, to protect, _anything –_ to keep this person safe and happy – _no matter what -_

Tom shines in that moment; flares like a fire cracker, his curls a tousled mess, and he’s so close Will can make out the golden constellation of freckles across his nose.

Suddenly trembling, Will struggles to swallow, his heart pounding violently in his chest, blood rushing in his head.

_My river runs to thee._

Will’s thumb presses against the soft inside of Tom’s wrist, brushing over his pulse, feeling it flutter erratically _, thump-thump-thump._

_(to you, to you)_

Tom’s long eyelashes lower again, there’s a slight hitch in his heavy breathing, and the water blue of his eyes search for Will’s. Drawn towards him like a thousand times during the war.

So startlingly intimate.

The moment stretches – Will can’t bear to move, he _can’t,_ he doesn’t _want_ to move, he’s rooted to the ground, his head nods towards an inch closer to Tom -

\- and then the moment breaks when the band starts another song, and the people around them start to move again.

Will doesn’t pull his hand away but nods towards their table, and Tom catches on. Together they leave the dance floor, dodging other dancers and they are pressed together, side by side, heat soaking through their clothes.

When they reach their table, Tom whips around, radiant. ”Another drink, how about that?”

”Are you buying?” Will asks smiling, tenderly watching Tom’s joy.

_(it’s a beautiful thing to witness)_

”Yeah, reckon it’s my turn and it ain’t even gonna be beets so I dunno, count yourself lucky. Sit tight, Scho.” Tom winks and dives into the crowd again.

With a long exhale, Will sits down, running his trembling hand through his hair. He feels off-kilter, oddly _jittery,_ it buzzes underneath in his veins like fire, butterfly wings fill his guts, but it’s not bad.

_Oh, it’s really not bad._

His heart thunders, he can feel every beat quivering through his whole body.

_Alive, alive, alive._

Rossi appears again by the table, raising an eyebrow at him. ”That looked fun,” he says, his tone neutral, easy-going.

Will doesn’t reply, he refuses to be embarrassed. It’s none of anyone else’s business but theirs.

Apparently Rossi doesn’t expect an answer because he takes his seat again but before he can say anything, Tom shows up with the drinks and shoves another pint to Will, shining.

”No beets?” Will humors him, eyeing him with fond amusement.

”No promises, gotta be careful, Scho. Dunno, might be a surprise at the bottom.”

”Noted.”

Rossi looks intrigued. ”Why, what does that mean, did you just drop one in there?” he asks and tries to peer into Will’s pint.

”Who knows,” Will replies dryly.

”Shite. Do I even wanna know?”

Tom looks delighted by all of this and snickers. ”Probably not – didn’t poison it or nothin’ - Jesus, calm down already.”

”Who is poisonin’ who here?” Cooke asks sounding very interested as he drops beside Rossi.

”You’re probably on his list,” Rossi muses.

”Whose list? The hell are we even talkin’ about?”

They all three share a look – before bursting into laughter.

+

It’s a good evening.

+

It’s closer to midnight when they start to leave. Rossi claps them on the backs – exchanges their addresses and makes them promise they’ll see each other soon. Cooke’s reluctant to leave but gruffly bumps into their shoulders.

”See ya around, chaps. Don’t get into trouble now.”

”Back at you. Next time I’m checkin’ your deck before playin’ with you, though all right?”

”Fuck no, don’t want your mitts all over my deck, piss off, Blake.”

Laughing, they wave each other goodbye.

+

On the way back home, Will notices Tom’s slower in his movements; not sluggish or drunk, but he’s still being careful with his right side.

Tom catches him glancing and with a click of his tongue, he groans: ”Ugh, c’mon, don’t tell me you told me so.”

”I did tell you so.”

” _C’mon._ It’s not bad, just sore,” Tom grumbles as they cross the street. ”Plus I’d do it again and you wouldn’t be able to stop me.”

”I never can,” Will agrees.

”Nope, you can’t _._ But you’d follow me, right?”

_I would._

_I did._

_I will._

Will smiles wryly. ”No other choice, is there?”

Tom laughs, cheeky and pleased with himself. ”Nope.”

As they enter their building, the lamp street light catch onto Tom’s face, and he’s tentative, hopeful.

”Was fun to dance, though,” he says softly and _god,_ Will’s heart squeezes again in his chest, emotions crashing into each other, melting and turning behind his ribs.

Humming, Will nods. ”It was.”

They get on the stairs, the shadows falling slanted across the steps, dark blue and splattered with yellow spots of light. Someone comes slowly down the stairs and Will steps aside, half in front of Tom.

_It’s a small thing._

_(remnant from the trenches, to shield)_

They nod politely to the older man in a stylish suit and continue upstairs.

Inside the flat, they notice Joe’s still not back.

Tom shrugs the coat off, struggles to get his shoes off and finally slumps on the couch. He’s still a little pale, and weariness has imprinted dark shadows under his eyes, but he leans his head on the couch, inhaling deeply.

”You all right?” Will asks, following him onto the couch.

Tom huffs out a light amused laugh and opens one eye to glance at him. ”Shove off already, you arse _,_ I’m fine.”

”Does it hurt often?”

”Nah, sometimes, but this was… first one for a while. Probably ’cause I’m all used to layin’ about now.” A pause. ”D’you wanna see?”

Will examines him under knitted brows. Tom’s eyes are so bright, like river water, serious, determined. _Oh, Will knows that look._ He swallows, his tongue suddenly feels clumsy, pulse drumming under his jaw.

”Do you _want_ me to see?” he asks, his voice an octave lower.

Tom meets his eyes, lifts his chin and even though something shifts in there, it’s not hesitation.

”It’s – I mean it’s bloody ugly, but… yeah.”

”That doesn’t matter,” Will says, stern now, protective instinct flaring inside him. ”A Hun stabbed you. As far as I’m concerned, it’s fucking proof you’re alive.”

Tom’s breathing stutters, and he stares at Will with wide eyes for two seconds, before he lifts his shirt. There’s not much privacy in the trenches and Tom’s body is not exactly unfamiliar to Will, but still this gives him a pause.

Tom’s skin is pale and soft, and an angry red jagged scar runs from the right side towards his navel.

Will’s lungs seize.

He remembers.

An icy numb sensation engulfs his heart.

_He remembers thick blood gushing out, soaking through Tom’s uniform, it pouring out and out and out and it’s not stopping, it’s still gushing out in a scarlet stream,_ his fingers were slick with blood, he remembers it gaping torn and open -

The scar is stitched, but not someone’s finest work, obviously done in a hurry. It’s glaring. _Livid._

Will’s hand twitches forward -

Tom doesn’t move, just regards him calmly.

_Alive, alive._

Will’s fingertips brush on the scar. Run over the craggy texture. Tom shivers under the touch but doesn’t move, only shifts to lean back a bit asif to give him more room. Will can hear Tom’s breathing becoming heavier, more shallow.

”Am I hurting you?” Will asks and hears his own voice deepening into rough gravel.

In the dim light, Tom’s eyes are mesmerizingly dark. ”No,” he whispers, barely moving his lips. ”You’re not.”

Will traces the scar’s edges, keeping the touch light, gentle. Another shiver goes through Tom’s body.

” _Will...”_ a broken, hoarse whisper, pleading _._

Will lifts his head, just an inch, his gaze finding Tom’s across that painful short space between them, half-lidded and dark. _Searching. Making sure_ _this is still_ _all right._

In his chest, his heart pounds like a sledgehammer, his breathing turns shaky and short, rasping in his throat. _This is really happening,_ he thinks dimly, half stunned.

The moment feels terrifyingly fragile, almost sacred. Will doesn’t dare to move, he’s careful to gauge Tom’s reactions, his body language – _is this all right, do you want to stop, I’ll stop, I’ll never mention this again if you want -_

Will’s hand trembles but doesn’t move away, every instinct screaming at him.

He’s stripped bare, his seams frayed open.

Helplessly he admires the way Tom’s long eyelashes flutter on the rosy cheekbones, the intense warmth radiates from him in waves, he’s so _close_ and Will thinks he’s drowning in the vibrancy that is _Tom -_

Tom gazes him back, unhurried, _soft_ -

\- and Will catches the slight jerk of his head before Tom leans in and closes the distance between them and captures Will’s mouth in a trembling kiss.

Time stops.

Will’s world stops _._

The kiss is chaste and close-mouthed and _perfect_.

It’s just a press of lips, to keep the breath in place, to keep still. Tom’s lips are chapped and so very warm, and Will wants to sink into it.

Before his brain starts again and before he’s able to formulate any sort of response, Tom’s already pulled away and his eyes are searching for Will’s, but this time -

Will’s stomach drops.

Tom looks back _terrified._

_No, no, no -_

”Will?”

Tom’s voice is small, breaking _._

It’s more than enough for Will to act. ”No – no, it’s all - ”

Tom’s face drains all colour to that ghostly white pallor, and his eyes are wet, _anguished._ ”I – I just fucking ruined everything, didn’t I?” he says weakly. His voice hitches and shatters under it all, and it’s the most heart-wrenching thing Will’s heard.

”No, you didn’t – Tom - ”

”I _did,”_ Tom breathes out, squeezing his eyes shut. ”Fuck, I’m sorry, Scho – I’ll never – I’ll never bring it up, we can never talk about it again, I’m so _sorry - ”_

” _Tom!”_

Tom freezes, his lips quivering, and god _,_ the way he’s looking at Will is utterly heartbroken, _devastated._ Seeing it creaks in Will’s chest, cuts him open and he feels like he’s bleeding out, himself.

_It hurts._

His own mind is thrown off axis into a turmoil, he can barely keep up what’s even happening, but he has to fix this, he has to fix this _now._

He moves to cup Tom’s head between his calloused, large palms, cradling him so very gently.

”Tom, look at me,” he says, his voice all low and rough smoke in his lungs. ”Please.”

Tom struggles, his breathing hitching painfully and Will can see the brutality, the full horror of Tom realizing there’s no going back from this.

It’s the same fear that’s haunted Will, and he’s gripped by the fierce love that he feels for Tom. Exasperation. Adoration. Protectiveness. Softness. _Everything._

He moves his hand to Tom’s nape, cradles his skull on his large palm, his thumb pressing gently on the skin under Tom’s jawline before pulling him closer to rest their foreheads together.

He can feel Tom trembling, his breathing coming out in short panicked gasps in a way that Will knows he’s close to crying.

But despite that Tom holds himself still. _God, this person._

”Everything’s all right,” Will murmurs, his voice deep and soothing. ”Tom, it is.”

”How?” Tom sounds wrecked, desperate. ”I ruined everything, ’course I did, I shouldn’t have done that, but I did ’cause I’m an idiot and now I can’t take it back and you know now, I’m so sorry, Will, please – please don’t hate me - ”

”You haven’t ruined anything. And I don’t hate you,” Will replies, quiet and gentle, still keeping their foreheads together.

Tom laughs and it’s a horrible, hysterical laugh that sounds too sharp, almost alien from Tom’s mouth. ”You should,” he whispers, ”you bloody should - ”

Will closes his eyes, draws a shuddering inhale in turn. ”I don’t. That’s not happening. I don’t think I’m capable of ever hating you. God, you – don’t you have any _idea?”_

Tom freezes. He’s so close Will can almost hear the wild beating of his heart.

”Any idea of what?” Tom gasps, like he’s been punched into the gut.

Will swallows. He’s unraveling, himself, he’s on the brink of breaking apart, but he has to do this.

He has to. _Meet Tom half way after Tom was so heartbreakingly brave himself, taking the first step, clinging onto that insistent fragile hope that maybe –_ _ **maybe -**_

”That I love you,” Will says hoarsely. ”That I’m in love with you.”

Tom stares at him in complete silence, lips parted, eyes so wide and blue.

_Silence._

In that moment, they are bare to each other, like raw open wounds. There’s nothing left to hide, each splintered scar, every desperate hope and fear brutally visible to each other.

Tom sees.

Will sees.

”Y – you’re in love with me?” Tom whispers, just as hoarse and desperate.

Will nods, watching Tom with serious determination. ”I am.”

Everything that he is, with all the parts of him, he is.

_My river runs to thee._

_Since the trenches._

_Since the cherry blossoms._

”In – in love?”

”I am.”

_In the river._

”W – with – with _me?”_

”Yes.”

_On top of the trench._

_I love you._

Tom stares at him again, his chest jerking with a violent dry heave and with that, he surges forward into Will and their mouths crash together in a frantic kiss.

It catches Will off guard, he stumbles under the sudden movement, taking in Tom’s weight against him but Tom grasps Will’s head, his fingers intertwining on the base of Will’s skull.

”Me too, me too, god Will – been in love with you for bloody _ages – ”_ he gasps against Will’s mouth like he’s dying.

’ _Been in love with you for bloody ages - ’_

It thunders in Will’s head, again and again and _god,_ _this is_ _real._ Will’s heart throws cartwheels, wild and ecstatic in foreign happiness _, it spills over the edges, it overflows -_

_He feels the same. God, how is this even possible?_

Will wraps his arms around Tom’s waist, pulls him closer and nudges his nose against Tom’s.

Their lips are an inch apart, hovering so close to brushing together, their breathing mingling.

Tom’s here and this is real.

Yearning expands inside Will, opening wider and wider until it swallows him, eclipses him, and he captures Tom’s mouth in a kiss.

_Helpless, completely undone, completely truthful._

The kiss is slow and so honey-sweet it physically aches in the hollow corners of Will’s chest. He’s hyper-aware of everything. Of the way Tom _melts_ into him with a content sigh, the way his other hand cards through Will’s hair.

With a soft hum, Tom kisses him deeper, hesitantly parts his lips and they map out each other’s mouths with careful, tentative strokes.

Tom tastes like  _himself –_ Will can’t explain it in any other way. It’s like something in him  _remembers_ even though they have never done this before. 

Tom doesn’t taste like smoke or trenches; more like honeyed tea, a hint of sweet cherries.

_Just himself._

Hunger and euphoria surge into their bloodstreams; like liquid fire, red hot and burning.

Tom whines against his mouth and god, Will wants to hear that sound for the rest of his life. 

He grabs Tom by the waist and pulls him closer, his large, calloused hands pressing firmly on the small of Tom’s back as they breathe raggedly into each other’s mouths, stealing deep, messy kisses in between – physically unable to tear themselves from the other.

_It’s not enough._

They’re both starving. Tom moves surprisingly quickly and throws his leg over Will to straddle his lap and then he pulls Will into another urgent kiss.

Will’s hands move to Tom’s waist, his thumb caressing the warm skin just under his shirt.

“Easy, easy,” Will murmurs, his voice husky, even to his own ears, his gaze drinking in the sight of Tom on his lap – Tom’s beautifully flushed, all lovely and mellow. _Happy._ “We have time.” 

“Oh, do we?” Tom asks now playful, the corners of his eyes crinkled with such naked affection as he holds Will’s head in his hands, his thumbs going over the line of Will’s cheekbones. 

Will leans into the touch, turning his head to press a kiss on Tom’s palm. “ _Yes._ We do,” he says quietly. 

“For how long?” Tom asks, his fingers moving to tug on a strand of hair just behind Will’s ear. Will knows what he’s asking. Tom’s tone might be light and teasing but he can hear it, nonetheless. 

_For as long as you’ll have me._

_For the rest of my life._

_(for the rest of my days)_

He grasps Tom’s wrist and kisses the soft inside of it.  _Thump-thump-thump,_ the pulse flutters again against his lips.  _Beautiful and alive._

He turns his head just slightly to gaze at Tom under half-way parted lashes. “For as long as you’ll bear it.”

_For as long as you bear me._

Tom’s gaze searches Will’s again, blue against blue, and there’s tangible intimacy about that sort of eye contact. There’s nothing left to hide, it’s all bared for both of them to see.  _Honest._ _Raw._

“And – and if I want to bear it for a – I dunno, a bloody long time?” 

Will tilts his head to look back at him. “Then I’ll be there for every step of the way.”

Tom’s lips part.

“H – how long have you - ? When did - ?” he stammers, stopping when the words get jumbled and Will waits for him to collect his thoughts again. He presses another kiss on Tom’s wrist again and he feels Tom relaxing on his lap. “When did it happen? When did you start feelin’ like – like that for me?” 

Will pauses but doesn’t let go of Tom. “I don’t know,” he says with honest, quiet voice. “I don’t know when it started. But… I know I felt it, even there.”

“You did?” 

The hope in Tom’s voice  fractures inside Will and aches. “Yes,” he murmurs. “I did. You were loud… and kind. We – we saw horrible things there but you still wanted to make people smile _._ Even when you were terrified. You were still smiling, telling stories. Still  _kind._ And funny.” 

Tom’s lips turn into a wide, pleased grin. “Funny, huh?”

Will chuckles. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late. I heard it – I want it written down that Will Schofield thinks I’m funny.” 

They share a low intimate laugh, leaning in to rest their foreheads against each other, noses brushing together, nuzzling the warm skin. Will marvels each slow drag of breath, every shiver on Tom’s skin, every shaky laugh.

“You really love me?” Tom whispers against the bow of Will’s mouth. 

“I do.” 

_With all of me. With all that I am._

Tom shudders, his fingers playing with the fine hair on Will’s nape.

“Say it again?” 

“I love you.” 

“Oooh.” Tom turns dawn-pink, flustered. “That’s – bloody hell, reckon that’s really bad for my heart, innit.” 

“Seems like a fair trade, then.” 

Tom lets out a squeal of laughter, dimples in full sight. “ _What,_ what’s that? Wait, what does that  _mean?”_ he gushes and tugs Will’s collar, excited.

Smiling Will moves his palm to cradle Tom’s head and runs the pad of his thumb just under Tom’s eye, and Tom leans with a satisfied sigh.

“What do you think? You’re just as bad for _my_ heart,” Will replies. 

“Oh, really?” 

Tom  _giggles,_ all pleased and breathless and presses another kiss on Will’s mouth, slow and silly, grinning into it. Will’s whole body exhales with it.  _Relief. Gratitude. All over again._

“ _Yes._ I’d say we’re evenly matched,” Will says after they part and presses a gentle kiss on Tom’s forehead, the curls tickling his mouth. He moves his other hand to comb Tom’s hair back. “What are you thinking?” 

Tom opens his eyes, content and  _lovely_ and  lean s  again into Will’s hand. “ I’m thinkin’… is this really happening?” 

“Yes… I think it is.” 

“Okay, brilliant.” Tom sags into Will again. “Good.” 

They’re quiet for a moment, just letting themselves enjoy this moment, experience it fully. 

“...are you falling asleep?” 

“No, but I think I’m gonna pass out soon. Can I sleep on you?” 

“Not a good idea. Our necks won’t thank us.”

Tom snickers  and  then it turns into a hiss as he shifts on Will’s lap, adjusting his position. “Ugh,  at least  my leg’s doing it.” 

“You all right?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Will drops his hands on Tom’s hips, then runs his palms on his thighs. “Don’t wanna get up though.” Tom swallows, doesn’t quite hesitate but he pauses, looking at Will under his curls. “Come to bed? Y’know… with me. Not to… uh, do anything ‘cause let’s be honest, I really am gonna pass out but… just sleep there? With me?” 

Seeing Tom’s nervousness, Will melts. His chest swells, every nerve in him  _sings_ ,  _god, he just -_

He just  _loves_ Tom so much. 

He brushes his thumb on Tom’s cheekbone again and rasps: “I will.” 

_+_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg I want to scream into a pillow because oh my god I can't believe I did that.   
> After like 58000 words they finally kiss. FINALLY. Oh god I hope it made all the waiting at least a bit worth it.   
> Thank you THANK YOU you beautiful kind sweet people who are still reading this, you make my week, every time. SO THANK YOU!! <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will and Tom spend a lazy day at the flat.

Will wakes up before sunrise as he often does, but this time, the dim light from the street below streams between the curtains, creating shadows on the walls.

He blinks, slowly taking in the fact that this isn’t his room – or even his cot. _No,_ his lazy, pleasantly empty mind supplies, _this is Tom’s room._ Last night’s memory trickles to his mind, slow as molasses.

 _Oh._ No panic tears through Will’s nervous system, no fire-hot anxiety flaring.

He just takes time to observe the realization in peace, in this tranquil moment. It happened. _It was real._

Tom feels the same. It’s _requited._

It happened.

Still no anxiety. Just rosy warm buzz fills his veins, like lingering sensation from a whiskey shot, faded into acceptance and serenity.

Will turns to his side and sees Tom still sleeping beside him, curled into the blankets, his face buried into the pillow. It’s not exactly a tight fit on the bed, not really – they’ve both slept in worse and more cramped places.

It’s so strange, Will thinks fuzzily to himself. This is real.

He just… forgets himself and just drifts to watch Tom; the way his sides fall and rise in steady, slow rhythm, the way his eyelashes rest on the apples of his sea shell-pink cheeks. The soft, lovely curves of his features.

Tom’s dark brown curls are a wild disarray, mussed on the other side where the pillow has been pressed against during the night. The faint light spilling from outside makes the strands shine almost golden.

 _God, you’ll be the death of me,_ Will thinks and tenderly reaches forward to brush a curl away from Tom’s eyes, smoothing the eyebrow with his finger.

_Alive, warm, here._

_And after everything -_

_Tom feels the same._

It still feels unbelievable, almost too overwhelming in the best way imaginable.

‘ _Been in love with you for bloody ages’_

God, how did that even happen? Will has no idea but he’s so utterly grateful for it; relief surges into his settled mind like crystal clear water, purifying everything in its way.

It seemed impossible, too much to ever hope for. Will hadn’t even realized it was in the realm of possibilities. He hadn’t even _dared._ He had been determined to be Tom’s friend as long as it was allowed to him, he had been grateful for it but _this…_

_What the hell have you ever done to be this lucky, you bastard?_

Will doesn’t know but he does know that he’ll fight for it – with claws and fangs, for as long as he _can._

As Will’s touch lingers on Tom’s hair, Tom’s breathing changes, deepens slightly and he leans closer to Will, towards his warmth, his head buried deeper into the pillow.

Will’s heart stutters at this; this is not an unfamiliar sight, _not in the slightest,_ but it still unravels him. It’s intimate, to witness Tom like this, vulnerable on a comfortable bed, somehow more private than ever in the trenches.

_This familiarity, this trust remains._

Will’s cracked open, so utterly naked and raw before this person, _this one man_ and he would be willing to be so for the rest of his life. Without hesitation. This man who has seen Will on his worst, grim, dark and closed off and sharp around the edges like rusted barbed wire, and he still _stayed,_ for some God-forsaken reason.

_Still smiled at him, still talked and told stories, told jokes and shared his worries. Never even batted an eye at Will’s flaws._

_Still here._

“You’re thinkin’ so bloody loud,” Tom slurs against the pillow, eyes sleepily half-open, peering at him in the dark.

Will meets his gaze across the pillow. “Did I wake you?” he asks quietly, his fingertips caressing on Tom’s temple.

Tom snorts. “Pfft, no way,” he says, voice still croaky with the disuse. “What’re you up for? Can’t sleep?”

“No, I slept fine.” More than fine, actually, Will’s quite certain he hasn’t slept that well in a while. “Just… internal clock.”

“You all right?”

“...yeah. I am.”

_God, he feels like he really is._

Tom breathes deeply, shifting closer to Will across the bed. “’n what time is it?”

Will contemplates whether or not he wants to move to actually check but ends up angling his head awkwardly to glance at the clock on Tom’s bed side table.

“Ten past five.”

“Jesus _Christ.”_

Still grumbling, Tom shifts closer and buries his head just under Will’s chin. He breathes deeply in pleased contentment and nuzzles closer into Will’s throat. He feels good there, Will thinks absently to himself, a sleepy warm, solid weight pressed into the planes on Will’s body.

He hums in response and bows his head just slightly downwards to press a kiss on Tom’s forehead.

“It’s still dark outside,” he whispers, his other hand coming to cup the base of Tom’s skull, his thumb massaging gently Tom’s nape. With a soft sigh, Tom relaxes against him. “Try to sleep some more.”

“Mmh,” Tom hums, eyes now closed, half-asleep already. “You, too.”

“No promises.”

“Just… let’s just… stay here a while, yeah?”

Will can do that. Tom’s breathing evens out, and Will allows himself to close his eyes for a moment. Eventually he drifts off, too.

+

When they wake up the next time, the street lights have faded into a dirty shade of gray-yellow.

Will’s surprised to realize how comfortable he is and even more reluctant he is to get up; he’s warm, cocooned into heavy blankets, his muscles are pleasantly relaxed, he feels almost liquid.

After that, he becomes aware of Tom, still nestled under his chin, his breathing steady on the sensitive skin of Will’s throat.

Still determined to stay in bed, Will struggles to get his arm free and wraps it around Tom, to rest his palm on his back. Tom’s back shifts in the calm rhythm of his breathing. It doesn’t take long before Tom starts to rouse, blinking sleepily.

“Will?”

“Mmh.”

Tom moves slightly so he can see Will better.

A shy grin appears on Tom’s lips, and Will finds himself smiling back. “Morning.”

“Mornin’,” says Tom, beaming and after a short beat, he leans in to kiss Will. It’s a relatively chaste kiss, a firm press of lips, a _hello. I’m here. You’re here. It’s all right._ Will melts into it and hums appreciatively against Tom’s mouth.

Tom laughs into the kiss, and _god,_ it’s one of the most gorgeous sounds Will thinks he’s ever heard. Breathless and bubbling out of control, like Tom can’t contain his joy.

_Happy._

After everything, after all the horrors, fear, stench and brutality, this is the most holy, most sacred thing they can have.

_(death doesn’t return anyone from its realm)_

_(war hurts and devours everything. but they are both alive. they made it, they survived, they can have this.)_

Will moves his hand to gently brush at Tom’s cheekbone again and admires Tom’s joy – it’s pure, vibrant, _so utterly genuine in every crinkle of his eyes,_ the way his mouth has curled into a wide, _wide_ grin, both so tender and happy it makes all the air rush out of Will’s chest, leaving him dizzy.

“Didn’t kick you out of the bed, huh?” Tom asks, his voice a whisper.

“Not that you know of. Could’ve climbed back up.”

Tom examines at him, squinting playfully. “Nah. I didn’t. Wait, no way – did I?”

Will chuckles. “No. You didn’t.” Tom leans in to kiss him again and Will closes his eyes in bliss and allows himself to experience that intimacy. Surrenders to it, with his whole heart and soul.

Like he can breathe. Like there’s still capacity in him to do so.

_To love._

And he does. God, he can and he _does._ With every cell of his being. His flesh and blood mortal weak body almost shakes with all the turmoil of every fierce emotion racing through him.

_My river runs to thee._

“Do we really gotta get up?” Tom whispers and nudges at Will with his nose just before pulling away.

Will nods, his thumb running on Tom’s chin up to trace his bottom lip. “Yeah, suppose so if we want to eat something.”

Tom slumps back onto the pillows with a proper flair of dramatics. _“Ugh.”_

“Don’t tell me you’re not hungry,” Will remarks, amused. “We didn’t eat anything after we left the pub.”

Tom peers at him, pouting but his eyes shine with mirth. “Oi, stop distractin’ me with food.”

Will snorts as he rises to sit on the edge of the bed and bows down to pick up his shirt. Tom nudges him with his foot.

“Stop distracting _me,”_ Will says, puts the shirt on and reaches to brush another strand of hair from Tom’s brow. Tom’s eyes flutter close and he leans into the touch like a lazy cat.

“I’m not even tryin’, dunno, sounds like _your_ problem, Scho,” he snickers.

Will rolls his eyes in fond exasperation and pinches Tom’s leg lightly. “Reckon I should’ve known what I was getting into,” he teases him, unable to keep the affection out of his voice.

“Yeah, seriously, Scho, a big oversight on your part.”

Will snorts a laugh and leans in to kiss Tom, slow and sweet. Tom hums, arches into the touch and a delicious shiver goes through his body, even through the blankets.

“C’mon,” Will murmurs against Tom’s lips. “Breakfast.”

Tom pouts, but it’s just a playful thing. “Okay, fine. Ooh, think we still have any of those sausages left? ‘Cause I could really go for some.”

“I think so. Unless Joe ate the rest.”

“Probably did, the bloody weasel. Oh, can you give me my shirt – yeah, that one, thanks, the other one’s useless. Also – hey, Will?”

“Hmm?”

Tom tugs Will forward and kisses him, deep and slow this time – Will’s knees don’t exactly buckle, but it’s a close enough thing. He breathes Tom in, warm and sleepy, still smelling faintly of lavender soap and crumpled sheets. Sun paints a rich golden halo on his hair.

“You really are distracting,” Will murmurs and Tom grins. _Lovely._

“Yeah, not sorry for one bloody bit, just so you know.”

Will huffs another amused breath and pecks Tom’s cheek before he leaves the bedroom.

He can hear Tom’s giggle behind him _._

+

“Ugh, probably need to shave. Look at this, s’all wispy under my nose, ain’t it?”

“Careful it won’t catch on fire with you standing there.”

“Pfft. That’d be bloody disastrous, wouldn’t it? My moustache on fire. Tragic, right in our kitchen. _You_ definitely need to shave, too – look at that mug.”

“Haven’t had the time,” Will replies mildly.

“Oi, now, didn’t say it was exactly a bad thing.”

“Oh, it’s not?”

“Nah.” By the stove, Tom’s ears turn red and he grins as he turns the sausages on the frying pan.

Beside him, Will cuts some apple slices with practiced ease and hands one to Tom on the flat side of the knife’s blade before putting the rest on a plate.

The frying pan sizzles, and the kitchen smells like garlic and melted butter.

“So... you love me, huh?”

Its such a tentative question.

Will can hear the shy delight in Tom’s voice and Will glances at him, the corner of his mouth curving into a fond smile. A small part of him is just as shy and flustered hearing it so blatantly, but the rest of him just lulls into a familiar sense of acceptance.

_This is happening. This is real._

_(it truly is like exhaling, all that heavy weight crumbling from his shoulders)_

“I do,” Will replies and starts to peel another apple. “Heard it was mutual.”

“Oh, no way, did ya?”

“Mmh-hmm.”

“Okay, good. Fancy that, ‘cause it is.”

Will turns the apple in his hands, considering. “So how long exactly is… ages?”

Tom’s hand stills on the pan’s handle and he flushes up to his hairline. “Uh, dunno. Probably way longer than I really wanna admit.” He turns the sausages over. “But um… figure it was somewhere around 1916 Christmas.”

It gives Will a pause as his thoughts wander back to that time. Bleak, cold, mud and corpses, yellowed skin, decaying, the terrible hollow nostalgia gnawing at them.

“How did you know?” he asks, both curious and incredulous.

Tom squirms for a moment before he draws a deep breath and just goes for it; Tom’s bravery about things never cease amazing Will, even the smallest acts of it, moments like these, he’s still brave and genuine with every single one.

_Putting himself out there._

He sets the frying pan aside, turns the cooker off and turns to Will, his face so very open, honest, nervous.

“Wasn’t really aware of it at first, but I...” Tom bites his lower lip. “I dunno _why,_ I don’t, but on that Christmas, I – I just wanted you to smile. Wanted you to be all right. To forget that we were there and not back home. And you – you daft _arse,_ you tried your best, too. We didn’t really talk about it or nothin’ but you… you were so quiet and obviously thinkin’ about home, and you just shared your chocolate.”

Will remembers it.

In the damp dug-out, in the shadows that reeked of stale cigarette smoke, in the flickering light of the oil lamp, they shared hard-textured, almost bitter chocolate he had managed to get his hands on from a small French village that they passed by.

He remembers Tom’s widened eyes, the startled breath, the quiet, _so bloody honest ‘thanks, scho’._

They had shared and eaten that chocolate on Christmas, on 1916.

“And it’s not that you shared it with me - ‘course it was delicious and I bloody love chocolate – but that you didn’t even think about it. You just thought to _share_ it. With someone. With – with me.”

Tom’s throat bobs as he swallows. “And really… it was a hundred little things pilin’ up but on Christmas I was… I thought about it.”

He swallows again, his fingers twitching on the table’s edge, looking a little lost and uncertain. Will steps closer, cups Tom’s nape gently and runs his thumb on the fine hairs there to comfort him. Tom relaxes. Their gazes meet across, bare and intimate, _vulnerable._

_(this is it – being open together)_

“I knew what it was like,” Will says, his voice a quiet rumble. “Being away, and I wanted to make it easier for you, too, for a little bit.”

Tom grins. “Well, it worked. Chocolate works bloody wonders, don’t it.”

“It does. And for the record, think a drink works, too.”

Tom snorts a laugh. “It’s a bloody miracle we didn’t go blind. Was kinda risky, trading that bottle.”

“It wasn’t bad.”

“Could’ve been a lot better, though.”

“Merry Christmas to us and all that.”

“Jesus, can you imagine – the Captain really would’ve killed us if he’d found out we got blinded by shoddy booze.”

“Probably not before making us dig some more mud, I reckon.”

“Jesus, he probably would’ve. That would’ve been rough. On a Christmas, too.”

Will nods, recalling the cheap, burning taste of Tom’s drink, clogging his throat, mixed with chocolate. Warmth – so rare as it was – spreading through his lanky, stiff limbs.

Tom watches Will under half-lidded eyes, curious and unhurried. “So what about you?” He tilts his head again, into Will’s hand. “Any idea when?”

Honestly, not really. Will thinks Tom said it the best. A hundred little things piling up. So slowly, so gradually he hadn’t even noticed.

 _(all the jokes, all that effort to make people smile, even when they snapped at him,_ _he still tried, so earnest,_ _all that vibrant energy, all that LIFE pulsing in him, all that goodness, loudness and stubbornness, optimism,_ _humor,_ _music and humming and talent, all that story telling, never ending and human and so so beautiful - )_

“No,” Will says quietly, holding Tom’s dark blue gaze with his own. Searching. Comforting. “I don’t know when. I don’t. But I know I loved you a long time before April. And I knew it broke my heart beyond repair to hold you on that farm yard.”

Tom’s breathing hitches. “ _Will...”_

Will pulls him forward to rest his forehead against Tom’s, breathing together in unison.

“I love you,” he murmurs, ragged. “I do.”

He can say that now. He can say it aloud and Tom is still here, accepting it.

The frayed seams of his heart part again and every raw truth spills out, bit by bit: “You are a good person. So bloody good. You _stayed_ good, even there. You are brilliant and creative – no, you are. And I’m glad you decided to be my friend.”

Tom smiles through tears, but he looks _happy._ “Not that you made it easy, you grumpy old bastard,” he says, laughter bubbling through.

Will chuckles. “No. You were persistent.”

“Yeah. Not like you could’ve run away, either. Damn sludge and all that around.”

“Mmh. Couldn’t, at first and then... didn’t want to.”

Tom beams at him, shining and lovely in his genuine joy. “You smooth-talker,” he grins. “Ooh, will ya recite some poetry at me?”

“If you want.”

Tom’s cheeks grow rather red, rich like autumn apples, like he hasn’t been expecting a positive response.

“Uh, maybe later, yeah?” He offers a bashful smile. “I – I’d like to hear the one with the sea and the river again, that one was pretty.”

Amused, Will makes a mental note of it and presses a light kiss on Tom’s mouth. Tom melts into it with a soft sigh.

“It’s not going to be easy,” Will murmurs finally, moving his large palms to Tom’s waist.

“Nothin’ ever is, is it,” Tom replies calmly, a serious somber look flickering in the endless blue of his eyes. “After the war, I really don’t give a toss. It was hell back there, wasn’t it and despite everythin’ we’re both alive and – and I love you. And – and for some reason you love me too. So other people can just mind their own bloody business. I choose this. _You._ A hundred times over. For as long as _you’ll_ bear it.”

Will’s heart constricts, then soars, his whole body _trembles_ with the force of this one confession and he lets out a breathy, hoarse sound.

“For a long time, then.”

_For the rest of my life._

Tom tugs at Will’s hair tenderly. “Yeah, you silly bugger,” he says with such softness. “For a long time. Huh, seems like you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“Good.”

_I lost you once and it broke me. Haunted me. You came back and I’m not wasting this._

Will leans in to capture Tom’s mouth in a gentle kiss.

_A promise. A confession. A comfort. A vow._

+

About half an hour later, as Will and Tom are in the middle of eating their breakfast and sharing opinions over sports news, Joe comes out of his room. Unlike his brother, he’s relatively well-dressed; his hair is neatly combed back and his trousers are clean, if not exactly well-pressed.

He stops on the doorstep, a frown furrowing his brow. Will isn’t sure how to explain it, but something in Joe’s demeanor seems _stiff._

“Mornin’, Joe,” Tom greets him cheerfully, glancing over his shoulder as he puts salt on his eggs. “How was your night then? Was Maggie all right?”

Joe blinks. “What?” he says and then seems to catch himself and clears his throat. The stiffness on his neck eases and a smile returns to his lips. “Oh, yes – it was all right. She was all right. More than all right.”

“Well, that sounds ominous, don’t it. The hell does that mean?”

“It means _we_ had grand time and you’re being a nosy little prat.”

“Wha, was just bein’ polite! _”_ Tom turns around in chair, now frowning at Joe, obviously worried. “You all right?”

The deep shadow between Joe’s brows has faded completely, and he just grins.

“Yeah, of course. So what’s you got there? Any left?” he glances at the kitchen hopefully.

“No, ‘cause how were we supposed to know you’re home? Make your own.”

Joe snorts. “Harsh, Tommy.”

“Bloody tough, innit, grab a spatula, would ya, for God’s sake, Joe.”

But Tom’s grinning back. Joe rolls his eyes and pokes him on the forehead.

“Think there’s still an egg or two left,” Will interrupts and Joe turns to glance at him. It’s a strange look; not unkind or angry, but Will has a feeling that Joe is _studying_ him but for what, he’s not sure.

“Thanks, Will,” Joe replies easily and goes to the kitchen.

“So Maggie was all right?” Tom asks when Joe returns a few moments later with a full plate and a coffee cup. “Been a while – oh, Will, would ya pass me the butter – on your left? Thanks.”

“Yeah yeah, she was wonderful,” Joe says, not bothered and glances at them curiously. “How about your night at the pub?”

Tom brightens. “Oh, it was bloody amazing – we met with Cooke and Rossi, and Henry even cracked a smile, didn’t know his face knew how to do that – “

“Uh huh,” Joe says, taking a slow bite of his toast, keeping his eyes on Tom’s face.

“ - had – y’know, a dance or two – and they played fucking _Glasgow Reel_ \- “

“Oh, that’s a good one.”

“Yeah! It was fun.”

Joe considers Tom briefly, his eyebrows twitching for the shortest moment. Then the remaining stiffness around his shoulders seem to drain and he relaxes in the chair.

“I’m glad,” he says and somehow his voice carries strange, relieved sort of _weight_ that Will hasn’t heard before.

_What’s going on?_

Joe turns his attention to Will. “Did you have a good time? Hope you didn’t just humor Tom.”

“ _What?”_

“It was very nice,” Will says truthfully, deciding to go along with the conversation. “And I didn’t.”

“He _doesn’t_ ,” Tom adds, indignant.

Joe laughs. “All right, if you say so.”

“So what’re you gonna do today?” Tom asks instead, his mouth twitching. “Y’know, besides bein’ bloody annoying?”

Joe shrugs casually, not even disturbed. “Nothing too much – met school mates on the way and so I’m having a lunch with the chaps around later noon, figured we have to go through our project one last time before we hand it over.”

Tom stops chewing, looking interested. “What, your little building’s all finished then?”

“All right, lay off, would ya?” Joe says, laughing. “ _Little building,_ Christ, Tom, that’s just one of my last assignments before graduation, no big deal.”

“Well, it ain’t supposed to be a castle, now is it? It _is_ a little house, that’s what it _is_.”

“But do you have to say it like that?” Joe asks sighing with the sort of amused resignation only an older sibling is capable of.

“I dunno, definitely could be improved – like a plaque sayin’ something like ‘dedicated to Tom Blake, the best brother there is’?”

“Just a plaque, is that all? I’ll make them hang it in the loo, how’s that for a compromise, eh?”

“Oh, c’ _mon,_ Joe, that’s rubbish, why’d you do that? It was a good idea, wasn’t it? D’you find fault in my offer, what?”

But Tom’s resolve breaks; his smile bubbles out of control, _free and silly and not serious._

Will takes a sip of his coffee, watching them fondly. Honestly, life doesn’t get boring with these Blake brothers but damn him if he doesn’t like it.

+

The breakfast goes well, all in all.

Joe appears to be in a good mood but still there are few moments when Will notices him opening his mouth to say something but then he appears to change his mind… and it settles in Will’s stomach like a stone.

Perhaps it’s truly his own pessimism, but it still makes him uneasy, _wary_ around the rusted, scarred-over parts in him _. It’s an old_ _instinct_ _._ Instantly Will scolds himself for it, for a second feeling hot shame prickle like bile in the back of his throat. He pushes the thought back in his mind.

_No need for it. Stop it._

They clean the kitchen, gather some laundry and exchange some grocery lists and around midday Joe bids them a cheerful goodbye as he leaves for the lunch.

Will and Tom spend that noon on their own little hobbies; Will immerses himself in sketching in his notebook. He didn’t mean to – initially he just leafed through it, searched for few notes he’d scribbled on before but then came across several drawings of his daughters, of birds, cats, _cherry trees -_

And after that drifted to a blank page and he just… went with it. A part of him, he thinks, needed to.

_(flower petals blossoms on the page, a delicate branch of a tree, some swallows, followed by the soft curve of tom’s cheek, mischievous but gentle eyes like he’s caught in the middle of laughing)_

Tom’s whittling by his workshop table near the windows. It’s cluttered with some paper notes, tools he brought from home. His nose is scrunched in concentration, his teeth worrying on his bottom lip, and Will catches glimpses of Tom’s thumb brushing over the wooden block’s surface, getting rid of dust and thin slivers.

Pale light spills on Tom’s hunched over figure, his hair seems to catch on white fire, and really, Will’s chest swells with tenderness watching him.

It’s just Tom, completely by himself, doing what he likes, just being himself and not giving a damn about what anyone else thinks.

Here and there, Will hears Tom singing under his breath, beats of a shanty that he does recognize: “ - _now we are ready to head for the Horn, weigh, hey, roll ‘n go...”_

Then, at times, a hiss: _“_ Ah, _shite_ \- !“

When Tom finally has enough, he scoffs, sets his tools aside and slumps on the couch, laying his head down on Will’s lap.

“Not working out?” Will asks, moving his notebook to his other hand so he can accommodate Tom.

“Ugh, it looks bloody awful. Think I chipped the poor bugger’s nose off.” He peers up at Will under his curls. “What d’you think, was Joe was bein’ all shifty?”

Will nods and smooths the rebellious strands away from Tom’s eyes. “A little.”

Worry presses against Tom’s brow. “Do you reckon it’s about Maggie? Or school? ‘Cause it sounds bloody hard.”

“Probably all of them together,” Will agrees.

“Blimey.” A pause. “I shouldn’t give him so much shite.”

“To be fair, he gives shit back to you just as much so I think you’re even.”

They just stay there for a moment – Will runs absently his fingertips on Tom’s scalp, massaging him behind the ear and Tom’s eyes flutter shut.

“Ugh, don’t wanna get up, you’re comfy.”

“Cheer up,” Will says with amusement and cards his fingers through the dark golden brown curls, burning the texture, the feeling of it in his memory. “I don’t think there’s any pressing business going on right now.”

Tom flashes a teasing grin up at him, dimples rising. “Ooh no, now you did it, somebody’s gonna knock and drag us do something. And you know… I’m gonna _whinge_.”

Will chuckles, leans back against the couch and just… marvels at this moment. How easy it is. _How natural._ Like it’s one of those afternoons they had before.

“What have you been working on?” Tom asks curiously, eyeing the notebook’s faded blue cover. “Can I see?”

Will hums. “Maybe later,” he says in a quiet voice, but not unkindly. _It’s all right. You can ask._

“’kay.” Tom nods in response, not bothered one bit and angles his head on Will’s lap so he can see him better. _Earnest, honest, calm._ “I can show you the most awful fucking hedgehog in London, how ‘bout that?”

Laughter bursts rasping from Will’s throat.

“It’s a deal.”

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is something of a breather chapter but I can write them being all sweet and in love now which I really really like :D  
> You guys were so incredibly kind in the last chapter, I'm so so happy you liked it! To be honest, I'm not sure where to exactly end this whole story, I have some vague ideas - but I came to a conclusion I shouldn't really think about it too hard because apparently my brain just comes up with new things to add here so we'll see where we end up!  
> Thank you again for being so patient with me. I love you guys <3


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Joe and the boys talk.

Somehow the newfound intimacy bleeds into their everyday routine with natural ease.

Nothing has changed, Will thinks, but in the same time, everything has.

Will finds himself marveling it in the simple, quiet moments between work and home _–_ the way Tom launches himself into rants about customers and some ’wankers with too much time an’ bloody money apparently in their hands just can’t be fucking _decent_ for once’ and huffing in indignation and then kissing Will, slow and deep and with such sweetness that it makes Will absolutely weak.

The bleached grayness in his life has bled with vibrant colours. The apartment breathes with laughter and Will can breathe along with it. Every breath. Every shift of his ribs, expansion of his lungs, no longer paper.

Of course, Will is a realist. It’s how he functions. He knows himself well enough to accept that.

He knows the life is not suddenly perfect because of this – a thing like perfection doesn’t exist, and he’s more than aware of Tom’s flaws; his stubbornness, loudness, his rashness… but none of it is new. Will _knows_ Tom. He’s witnessed every bit of Tom during the countless hours in the trenches.

There are still days when they are quiet and tense, when they wake up with the taste of blood welling in their mouths, _(gurgling, choking on it),_ their hands shaking, artillery fire’s _rat-tat-tat_ pounding in their ear drums, deafening the outside noise with each thundering pulse.

_Will knows it._

Every part of it. The ugly, mauled parts, the nightmares, the silence, but with it comes the equally silent, adamant support because they know what it means.

_It’s not perfect._

But Will embraces _this._

_(embraces_ _**him** _ _)_

_(because tom knows it, too)_

Happiness is about enjoying these little moments, being able to pull Tom closer, nudging his nose into his with reverent affection. Finding with utter relief and gratitude that Tom steps in closer, grinning into the touch.

_Easy. Comforting. Home._

The way Tom smells familiar, the way his presence sinks against all the scars and lines of Will’s body, the way he’s not unknown to Will in any way, the way his eyes crinkle into water blue crescents when he laughs, or the way he lights up when Will gives him his share of food. The way he makes sure Will’s got enough to eat, too.

The way his brow furrows when he’s concentrating, the way he hums or sings to himself when he’s working on something.

_The way everything about this is so painfully, viscerally familiar yet new._

Like all the sharp-jagged edges of the world have slotted together. The faded outlines stitching back together, smoothing over. Will never, ever imagined that belonging would feel so liberating.

That _home_ would feel like this.

Will visits the girls and Mary – they’ve slowly gotten better at scheduling and the new routine, and for the first time, it actually feels like everything is working out.

But Will worries about Joe.

Joe is barely home, busy finishing his studies and but when he is, Will’s neck prickles, and he could _swear_ Joe’s examining him. He doesn’t quite catch it, but he can feel it, needling at his skin.

It never really feels hostile but the awareness still twists Will’s stomach into a hangman’s noose.

He doesn’t know how to bring it up with Joe directly -

\- and he’s nervous what might happen when he does.

+

In two weeks, the autumn fades into bitterly cold winter. The world washes into glittering frost and grey shades swelling within the clouds. But the first time it snows, they are outside, walking home from the library; Will had wanted to check some old classics and Tom had tagged along, interested in some adventure short stories.

The day has darkened into ink blue shades, and street lights burn yellow and orange.

” _Oooh!_ Will _, look!”_

Tom’s stopped behind Will, looking up towards the sky. White snow stars float down with such lightness and they cling onto Tom’s curls, make his cheeks flush with red spots, and the pure wonder reflects from his face.

”It’s snowin’,” Tom breathes out, his eyes wide and bright in the street light’s glow.

Will looks up. It’s beautiful in a bleak, ice-cold sort of way and he appreciates the innocence of it. What a simple thing, snowfall, he muses. After everything, nature is just the same. Seasons change, red leaves fall and snow covers the landscape.

The air smells of factory smoke and cold, a hint of gingerbread wafting to his nostrils.

The snow gathers on Tom’s hair, his shoulders and on his long dark eyelashes, glimmering like little diamonds, and he grins through it all, and Will’s breathing gets stuck on his thick throat.

_Alive. Himself. Lovely._

With a private sort of chuckle, Will brushes some snow from Tom’s hair, on the wet curls.

”It’s a bloody mess, innit?” Tom laughs, not sounding even one bit bothered by it.

”It is,” Will agrees, amused but soon is distracted by the way Tom’s eyelashes flutter on his wind-bitten cheeks. The street across their apartment is empty, so he feels the tempting pull to drag Tom into a kiss, but he resists.

_Not safe here._

”D’you reckon it’s gonna snow a lot? Could we take the girls sledding or skating or something?”

In his surprise, Will’s hand almost falters, a fierce swell of affection rushes through him, strips him open, thread by thread. _Oh._

He shouldn’t be surprised, he absolutely shouldn’t, at least by anything that Tom does, but moments like these… he falls even deeper in love. With his whole heart. His whole _soul._

_Easy as breathing._

Throat thick and hoarse, Will manages to nod, somehow wheezing past the lodged mess in his mouth.

”We could.”

Tom’s smile turns so very fond, gentle like he knows. ”Brilliant. C’mon. Let’s go, it’s bloody cold in here, don’t want any toes to freeze off.”

”I wouldn’t go that far.”

”Oh, you wouldn’t, you’re in denial about your socks as it is. It’s a wonder your toes are even in there.”

Tom tugs at Will’s hand and with a laugh, Will allows himself to be led home.

+

”Think I’m going to put the kettle on, want a cup?”

”Sure, that wind went through my bones, geez. Hey, what about the biscuits, in the back? ’Cause I remembered at work but then wasn’t sure and forgot.”

”Yeah, bought some more.”

”...you’re bloody _amazing,_ Scho. Oooh, these are the Belgian ones, yeah?”

”Thought you might like them.”

”I fucking _love_ them. They do somethin’ really fancy with the butter, I’m half tempted to give it a go… hey, I’m gonna go change - ”

”Will do. Want me to pour you one when it’s done?”

”Yeah, that’d be lovely, thanks.”

Tom presses a quick kiss on Will’s cheek on the way to his room, his fingers already unbuttoning his shirt, and Will, although kisses are not a new thing now, feels his pulse stutter, and a flare of warmth spreads through his body, leaving behind simmering embers.

(he focuses on making the tea, ears turning red.)

Meanwhile Tom re-emerges from his room and Will glances at him before stopping.

” – if it does keep snowing, you know… I could get a sled from the store. Mr. Taylor keeps complainin’ about the inventory and surplus or whatever – they ain’t even rickety so dunno what _he’s_ going on about, winter’s not gonna give a toss about stocks, it’s still gonna happen this or the next year anyway – what?”

He pauses because Will’s apparently, much to his own embarrassment, has lost the ability to concentrate.

”Are – is that my shirt?” he somehow manages to get out of his dry, woollen mouth.

Tom raises an eyebrow at him, skeptical but obviously going along with it and tugs at the shirt’s hem. ”Oh, yeah, looks like yours?” He grins. ”No wonder it felt all long, look at this. You lanky bastard.”

A tangled mess of emotions swerves in Will’s chest – the loudest bares its teeth, and hunger, desperate sort of longing surges into his blood stream, catching on fire. _Mine,_ rings through his dizzy head.

It’s such a primal, startling thought that it could cut glass, and it sobers the red haze in him.

Will has never considered himself a possessive man.

He doesn’t want to own Tom in any way, Tom is a free soul, _confident and free and so absolutely full of life_ that any fate other than belonging to himself would be unimaginable and wrong but seeing Tom in his clothes makes something purr in his chest: something protective, sated, awfully, wonderfully _pleased._

”Will?” Tom calls out, but the way he eyes Will is amused, like he’s aware where Will’s thoughts have headed. ”What’s that look for?”

The thin laughter lines around the corners of his eyes deepen with mirth and delight.

Will clears his throat, cheeks red. ”...it suits you.”

”Uh huh. Bet it does.”

Tom angles his head up, the long expanse of his pale throat bared and Will draws a deep, calming breath.

”You’re a menace,” he says gruffly and traces Tom’s petal pink cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. ”You _are_.”

Tom snickers. ”Oh yeah, absolutely. But you love me for it,” he says, beaming back at him.

”I do,” Will replies with such bone-deep fondness it threatens to spill over and seep through the seams of his body. There’s not much use of denying any of it – Will does love Tom and he’s not ashamed of it.

Tom makes a strange squeaking sound in the back of his throat, ducks his head as the pink colour on his cheeks deepens into a vivid shade of scarlet.

He squints at Will, almost scolding, then appears to contemplate whether to comment on that particular confession but decides not to and just leans in to kiss Will, smiling and their noses smushed together.

It’s a very silly, sincere kiss but one Will enjoys so very much.

Will runs his palms on Tom’s sides, then settle on his waist as a hot, reassuring weight and pull him closer by the small of his back. They part an inch and Tom busies his fingers on Will’s lapels.

”All right, tell me what was the most excitin’ thing that happened today?” he asks.

”Getting off work,” Will deadpans and smirks, satisfied when Tom laughs.

”I bet! No, but honestly, anything? ’Cause I saw a dog and that was pretty amazing.”

Will chuckles and thinks of his reply, absently running hs thumb on Tom’s bare skin that peeks just under the linen fabric of the shirt. _His shirt. God._

”The snow. Sunrise. Getting those new pencils.”

”Ooh, yeah! How about findin’ that book?”

”Oh, that, too.” Will’s gaze lowers to Tom’s face. ”It hasn’t been a bad day, at all.”

Tom meets that gaze, gentle and squeezes Will’s forearms with reassurance. ”Yeah?”

”Yeah. I can read some of it to you later if you want.”

The blue in Tom’s irises seem to flash even brighter. ”I’d love that,” he says softly. ”C’mon, tea?”

They turn to the kitchen counter, chattering to each other as they nibble on their biscuits. The kitchen smells of camomile and a hint of citrus.

+

”You didn’t tell me what kind of a dog it was?”

Tom’s laughter rings loud and rich in the kitchen, bounces off from the porcelain and tiles.

+

”No, it wasn’t a tiny poodle, you arse, it was _a beagle!”_

+

The snow gathers behind their window panels, painting the glass with delicate frost patterns.

It’s already nearing six o’clock when Joe comes home, snow in his hair and gathered on the folds of his coat. He shrugs the coat off, unties his shoes and stretching, he wanders to the living room.

”Well, that’s it then, lads, I’m officially done with school,” he announces with a lop-sided smile.

”Congratulations,” Will says.

”Oh, they approved of your little building?” Tom jokes from his little workshop nook.

”Tom, I swear, I’ll throw a wet mitten at you,” Joe laughs, but then as his eyes flit across the room, he falters, just slightly. _Just for a split second._ Then, he quickly turns around and picks up a smooth ivory-white box from the ground. ”Anyway, I bought cake as a celebration. Or dunno about you, Tom, all you’ve done is mocked me.”

” _Hey –_ I’ve been plenty supportive – wait, are you serious? _”_

”Dead,” says Joe with a blank face but then his facade breaks and he smiles widely.

”It’s all done, then?” Will cuts in and Joe nods.

”Basically so, it’s still missing a bit of paper work, but I’ve submitted all the necessary assignments, done all my exams, so I _should_ be on the clear. C’mon, Tom, I was joking, come get some cake and don’t pout.”

”...I’m not pouting, you just don’t have a sense of humor, s’all,” Tom complains but he doesn’t mean it, either.

Will helps Joe to get the cake out of the box, while Tom fetches plates and utensils. It’s a chocolate cake with cream frosted on the top – the cake itself is a bit squished around the sides but the taste of it melts on Will’s tongue, sweet and rich.

” - was a wonder – no, it was, that one wanker, Anders, nearly made us fail – blighter got drunk, lost all his parts of the assignment. Probably threw them all over Thames, the git. But he did pull through at the end – yeah, he did! Thank God, I was ready to throttle the bastard.”

Joe gestures wildly with his spoon and sticks it finally in his mouth, pausing. ”Damn, that’s some good cake if I do say so myself,” he says and Tom rolls his eyes.

”Oi, don’t take all the credit. But yeah, it’s a good one… Thanks for treatin’ us, Joe.”

Joe softens. ”It’s all right. Figured you deserve a bit of compensation for putting up with the flat and all.” It’s quiet for a moment. Joe drags his spoon on the plate in thoughtfully, he swallows and hesitates. ”So… what’s going on here?”

Instantly the bottom of Will’s stomach drops to his knees.

_What – does he - ?_

Tom’s spoon freezes in midway in the air. Silence falls, all oxygen seems to run out of the room in a suffocating  _woosh._

Tom stares at Joe. “What d’you mean?” he asks, his voice almost deceptively calm – or so Will would think if he didn’t see the trembling on Tom’s jawline.

Joe doesn’t shift, doesn’t tense, his expression remains calm. “I’m not blind, Tom,” he says gently.

All the colour drains from Tom’s face, and the horror,  _fear_ is so tangible Will finds it hard to breathe through it. 

“Joe - “ he grunts, making a move to get up, not knowing to do what exactly, but _to help, to protect, anything -_ and Joe’s eyes pin him on the spot. 

It’s still not angry, it’s almost… serene, the way he watches them. Watches the scene unravel. It makes Will feel ill with anxiety and horror so much he feels like he’s suffocating on it.

_Too much, it’s over - !_

“You’re wearing Will’s shirt, Tom,” Joe says, keeping his voice steady and kind. 

Tom says nothing, his eyes wide and wet, and he’s _trembling._

“And Will definitely didn’t sleep in his own bed the night you came back from the party at the pub,” Joe continues , pronouncing each word so clearly it feels like a knife wound. It hurts more, Will thinks, because Joe still doesn’t sound angry, disgusted or disappointed. He wonders if it would be better if Joe was shouting and furious. 

_(would perhaps make the inevitable parting more bearable)_

Will swallows thickly, holding that gaze.

“No. I didn’t,” he admits, rasping. There’s no use in lying about that _._

“Joe, please don’t do this - “ Tom breathes out, no – he _begs._

_For Will, for himself, for_ _**them.** _

_(god, will’s in agony, hearing that from him.)_

_oh, love..._

All the tired, worn lines on Joe’s features smooths out and he reaches over to grip Tom’s hand.

“No, no, no. It’s all right. It’s _all right._ Tom, it is. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” he says, _comforts_ because he’s an older brother and he lost Tom once and _oh._ “You know I – we don’t have to talk about it. We _don’t._ If you don’t want to, if you’re not ready, I understand, I’ll keep it as a secret till my grave if that’s what you want, but I - it’s just… I haven’t seen you so… You were so heartbroken before. Are you happy now with what’s – what’s between you two?” 

_Are you together?_

It rings out, ear-piercing and crackling in Will’s ear drums as a white noise. He can hear the question, so blunt that there’s no way around to  _not_ hear it there. 

Tom sways on the chair, forces himself to swallow, and Will can hear how shallow his lungs sound. 

Their eyes meet, and the full weight of the situation crashes on them. Anguish, panic, despair.

_This is happening. This is real. Are you all right with this? Yes. Do you want this to happen? I’m with you, with every step of the way._

Will reaches under the table to squeeze Tom’s knee, to comfort.  _It’s all right. I’m here. No matter what happens._

Tom nods and squeezes his wrist, with a surprisingly strong grip.

_Yeah._

_I’m here._

”Yeah,” Tom says out loud and doesn’t let go of Will. ”I – I am.”

Joe studies him carefully before moves his attention to Will. ”And you? I know you’ve had rough time with the divorce and everything. Is this what you want?”

Will knows why Joe’s asking. Of course he knows. It still stings under his skin.

”It is,” Will grunts. ” _He_ is. In every sense of it.”

He can hear Tom drawing in a hitched, broken breath. ” _Will...”_

But tension drains from Joe’s shoulders and he sags further into the chair, his smile widening, and somehow the atmosphere releases.

”Okay. _Okay._ Good.”

Blindly Tom reaches to intertwine their fingers under the table, and Will runs his thumb on the back of his hand, just aimless, comforting patterns on his skin. When Tom’s breathing calms down, he asks:

“How – how long have you really known?” 

“You’re many things, Tommy, but subtle ain’t one of them,” Joe says and then he rubs his mouth as if weighing how to phrase his thoughts. “I – I had some idea how you felt. Didn’t understand at first how deep it was or – or how, but when – when you were with Will – when you first came to visit us,” he adds to Will, “… it was like – “ Joe tries to search for a good enough word, but gives up, shakes his head. “I haven’t seen you so happy in a long, long time. _And_ it really sunk in these past few weeks, you two are rubbish at pretending.” 

Tom flushes. “Stop it,” he says weakly. “We tried, all right, don’t have to be an arse about it.”

“I know, I know.” Joe’s smile fades and the shadows take sharp shape around the edges of his face. “The world is a bloody awful place,” he says, “fucking unkind and cruel to things it deems different, so – _please_ be careful out there, yeah? You two are adults and you’re not hurting anybody so you can decide for yourselves and if you’ve chosen to face it all together, I’m more than happy for you. I _am_. And this? You don’t have to pretend or hide here. At _home._ ” 

Will squeezes Tom’s hand and a rusted, wet sound rattles out of Tom’s chest. He shudders, the violent shake spreading from his shoulders to his hands, and Will pulls him closer to his side, into an one-armed hug.

“Tom?” he murmurs quietly, rubbing Toms shoulder. 

“I’m all right,” Tom manages to reply and smiles weakly. “Just reelin’ a bit. Blimey. What’re you doing, dropping that on us? Think I had a heart attack or five, _Jesus.”_

“Sorry,” Joe says and to his credit, he does sound apologetic. “I could’ve planned that better, sure, but… I just had to make sure – I love you, Tom. No, shut up, let me talk. You’re my little brother, I want you to be happy and I always worry about you, but… I reckon you chose a good man to have your back.”

Will’s chest tightens around the frantic beat of his organs, the knots cut his airways, and it dawns on him in an abstract,  _absent_ way that  _oh, this is actually happening. This is a blessing, a permission._

_Acceptance._

“Thank you,” he rasps out, searching the older Blake’s eyes. They are just as true and honest as Tom’s. No lies. _He means it._

Tom’s bottom lip quivers, and the trembling goes through his jawline. 

“Yeah,” he whispers and gets up, and Will watches them draw each other into a hug. He can see their arms shaking, the wet glaze in Joe’s eyes in a way that reminds him of that day in April, in 1917, on one of the worst day of their lives. 

_But these are happy tears._

“I meant it, Tommy, I’ll keep it as a secret for as long as I’ll live. It’s safe with me, I _swear_ it.” 

“I know, you daft bastard,” Tom gasps into Joe’s shoulder, his voice sounding thick, quivery. “Thanks, Joe. Love you, too.” 

N ostrils flaring, Joe grips the back of Tom’s shirt, then clears his throat and ruffles his hair, so very gentle. 

“Good. Now for God’s sake, let’s eat some cake – I asked for extra chocolate so dig in.” 

+

Somehow it’s just like that.

+

Joe decides to give them some space to talk and after washing his plate and putting it to dry, he informs them he’ll got to his friend’s flat to have a celebratory drink. 

“Behave,” he says, winks and leaves. 

Tom frowns after him as they carry their dishes to the kitchen. “Y’know, for all he’s saying I’m not subtle, it’s like callin’ kettle black, innit?” Tom glances at him, nervously. “Was that all right? I know it wasn’t… you know, planned, but guess it’s out on the open now.” 

“Yeah, not much we can do about it,” Will agrees. “But I’m not sorry. And I wouldn’t take it back. He knows and he’s… all right with it, which is more than most can have. It could’ve gone much worse. How about you?” 

“Well, I think my heart’s still in the process of not beating out of my chest and I think I lost about three years from my life span, but other than that, just dandy, I s’pose.” 

“Do you think he always knew?” 

“Think he did. I – he must’ve. I think? I – I mean I can’t hide anything for _shite.”_

That’s true. Will lets his thoughts wander around the whole conversation, examining the bits and pieces and finds one of the things that dug into him like a grenade shrapnel.

“Tom?” 

“Hmm?” 

Will hesitates. “He said you were heartbroken.”

Tom pauses biting his lip, considering his answer, and then Will sees it, the old dulled pain flashing across his features, making him look weary.

“Yeah. I… suppose I kinda was,” he mumbles, looking away. 

Will’s stomach churns with nausea and awful sour bile burning at the pit of it. “When?” he asks, his voice sounding like gravel and sand, gurgling under his tongue.

“Reckon Joe meant the time I came to visit you in London. Kinda embarrassing to think now. I was a miserable little bastard.” 

Will frowns, his heart pumping faster, crushing against bones, the dread pooling in his veins.

“Why?” 

Tom stops, looks at him and gut-wrenching pain bleeding across his features.

”’Cause I felt so fucking _guilty,”_ he replies and tries to smile. ”I – I knew you were married and I was coming to meet you, your _wife._ I met her and I was in love with her husband, and I felt so awful. She was lovely _,_ your kids were adorable, and I – I just loved _you.”_

He lifts his head to search Will’s gaze, helpless and raw, every frayed nerve and fear visible.

”I knew visiting you in London would break my heart, I bloody knew but – but I just – ” He squeezes his eyes shut as his breathing turns heavy, uneven, and witnessing his suffering pushes Will’s protective instincts forward.

Silently he reaches for Tom, grips his nape gently with his calloused palm, and Tom sighs, leaning back into the touch.

”I don’t regret any of it,” Tom whispers now, his voice wet, still _so bloody brave._ ”I don’t. I had to ’cause - ’cause you not being in my fucking life hurt _worse_. You’re my best mate, I wanted to have you in my life in any way I could. S – so – I’m so sorry, Will.”

Will leans to rest his forehead against Tom’s, desperate to make this easier for Tom, their breathing turning ragged. ”It’s all right, it’s all right,” he murmurs back. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to go through that and – and for not noticing you were hurting.”

Tom smiles through tears, and it’s such a _Tom_ thing that it dismantles Will’s heart, bit by bit, scar by scar, leaving it open and free. 

“Yeah, well… thought that having a heart was fucking _bollocks._ Useless, that. But you know, that doesn’t mean I didn’t have lovely time at your house,” Tom says softly, a hint of old mischief colouring his tone. “I did. And I’m more than glad I met Mary and the kids. I _am._ ”

Will believes him. He remembers Tom doing his best, he brought Mary a gift basket, he entertained the girls with magic tricks, he  _tried his best and even more even though his own heart was breaking._

Suddenly overwhelmed and helpless against his own fierce adoration for this man, Will can’t do much else than to tilt Tom’s chin up and meet him half-way in a hard kiss.

The kiss tastes like relief, gratitude, acceptance _._ It  mellows, turns into  savouring, revering every hitched breath and soft sigh, languidly chasing the chocolate flavor, sticky sweetness lingering on their lips. 

“You’re unbelievable,” Will whispers roughly into Tom’s mouth. “You unbelievably brave, _good fucking_ person.” 

Tom giggles. “Dunno about that, I’m a selfish prick, all around scoundrel, ask anyone,” he says, coming alive with warm humour again and reaches to tug at Will’s hair just behind his ear and squeals when Will drops his head to press a burning kiss on his throat. “ _Oi,_ that tickles –  _Will!”_

Will pulls back and his hand lowers to Tom’s waist, his large palms running up and down his ribs. Tom shifts between his hands and somehow ends up burrowed into Will’s side.

Will nuzzles into his temple, nosing the curls.

“Thank you...for telling me,” he says quietly into Tom’s hair. 

With a faint sigh, Tom rests his head on the crook of Will’s neck. “Yeah… s’all right. Thanks, Will... for being here.”

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's nearing the end of this hell year! Thank you for sticking so far with this monster of a story, for so many months, you are all so amazing and kind, that never stops making me emotional. 
> 
> Please have a wonderful Christmas, happy holidays and hopefully a better New Year! <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will & Tom share intimate moments.

Winter approaches, and soon, the days darken and Christmas lights glow like magic fire on the streets and alleyways.

Will’s a bit uncertain at first, wondering how Christmas will go – it being the girls’s first without them being a traditional family.

Mary rises a rather lofty eyebrow at him when he brings it up on the first week of December.

”Don’t buy anything for me,” she warns. ”I think we will spend it at my parents and then leave for Somerset the next day. Sea air and nature and all that.”

Will relaxes. All of that sounds good, in his opinion – he figures the change in scenery is welcome for the girls, especially if sea and snow are involved.

”I’d still want to see them before then.”

”Of course.” Mary studies him for a moment, a furrow on her brow that is not as subtle as she would probably like. ”Would Tom like to visit here as well?”

Not quite tensing, Will eyes her, careful. ”...I can ask him.”

She still scrutinizes him, too curious, too eager to poke a needle in the fragile sort of peace they’ve had whenever a discussion approaches the subject of Tom Blake and Will’s quiet but fierce love for him.

She doesn’t ask anymore, not after witnessing the brutal sorrow on Tom’s face when she asked about his love life and then feeling guilty for causing him pain, but Will knows her well enough to be wary – she still _wants_ to know. He’s not sure how obvious he is, but still…

He’s not in the mood to indulge her, especially not about this.

It’s his and Tom’s, their private matter.

She gives in. ”Well, you are welcome here, of course, and so is he. Just remember that.”

+

The flat smells like gingerbread, nutmeg and mulled wine when Will comes home. Tom’s bustling with sheer determination in the kitchen, he’s got flour on the tip of his nose, his hair curled from the steam and heat rising from the oven.

He looks so rumpled and energetic that Will has to pull him towards himself and kisses him with slow, open tenderness _._ The way Tom melts into him every single time never ceases making Will’s pulse stutter and simmer like red embers.

And here, in his arms, Tom smells like melted sugar and _home_ and it all aches with such wonderful sweetness in Will’s very bone marrow. It happens almost every time, and Will never stops appreciating it.

Eyes half-lidded, Tom grins into the kiss. ”Hey,” he breathes into it, his gaze warm with hearth and star-fire and _g_ _od, Will is so very weak in the knees for him._

”Hello,” Will murmurs, massaging the tendons in Tom’s nape with his thumb. ”Been busy?”

Tom scrunches his nose playfully. ”Oh yeah, never mind the complete tragedy of my gingerbread blokes losing their fucking arms – look at this. Bloody disaster here. Dunno if Cooke’ll appreciate that.”

”He’ll live.”

”He’ll _whinge,_ the bastard. Wait, lemme take that off the cooker before it fucking melts – how were the girls and Mary?”

”They were fine. Sophie expressed loudly her dislike for cross-stitching and declared it’s stupid and a waste of time and that every stitch she’s ever done has been done with hate.”

”Oh, shite, really?”

”Yeah, it was important to her that we know that. Apparently they have to do it at school all day long, according to her. She’d rather solve riddles.”

Tom snickers. ”Poor girl, gotta be rubbish, that. We gotta find her something to cheer her up.” Then, his expression wavers between hesitation and nerves. ”Um, so speakin’ of which… got a letter from Mum and she’d really like to see us on Christmas,” he says slowly, fidgeting slightly. ”So – what d’you think? Joe’s going anyway, and I wanna see her, too, so… um, do you wanna come with me and Joe?”

Will’s hand pauses on the base of Tom’s skull and he stares at Tom, incredulous. How can Tom think Will wouldn’t want that? With such nervous eyes, shifting, his lip worrying between his teeth, like Will’s answer would be anything but _yes?_

”I’d love that,” Will says quietly in an earnest rumble, his voice catching ever so slightly around the syllables.

Tom brightens, like sun rising behind window glass, bright and beautiful. ”Really?”

”Yes. And… also on that note, Mary told me to ask you would you want to come with me to visit the girls before Eve? To drop off the gifts?”

A teasing glint catches on Tom’s eyes, all playful and mischievous. ”Gifts, huh?”

”From us,” Will says, nodding.

Peals of laughter spill from Tom’s lips. ”No, from _Santa,_ you Scrooge. Can’t just say ’merry Christmas from your Da’ now can you?”

”I wasn’t going to say it’s from _me - ”_

”Sophie’s gonna cross-stitch your mug on the next pillow case out of pure bloody fury.”

Chuckling, Will brushes his thumb on the wild curls on Tom’s neck and pulls him closer to nuzzle his cheek. ”Fair enough. So? Will you?”

Tom beams, and it’s a slow-rising, shining thing to witness.

”Sure, someone needs to make sure there’s some Christmas magic goin’ on, yeah? Hey, fancy a biscuit? Tried these too, and these don’t even have arms so I think we’re safe.”

”Can whinge if that makes you feel better.”

Tom winks. ”Nah, pass, I’m good. Just tell me if you like ’em.”

Will does. Butter and sugar dissolve on his tongue, perhaps simple in flavour but still good. He nods, and Tom relaxes. ”S’not as fancy as the Belgian ones, but reckon you can’t go wrong with cinnamon.”

”No, these are good, love. Here.” Will presses the rest of the biscuit onto Tom’s lips.

Tom raises an eyebrow at him and makes a slow show of sliding it between his lips, the crumbles barely catching onto the rosy curve of his mouth. Tom keeps his steady eyes on Will, his gaze now turned hooded and darkened into a lovely shade of ink blue.

_Inviting._

Will’s mouth goes dry, heat pooling in the low of his stomach and he can feel himself flushing.

_Oh, this man._

After finishing the biscuit, Tom pauses for a barely noticeable beat, and then he tugs Will forward and closes the distance between them in a kiss. Will responds instantly, and Tom’s mouth blossoms open under Will’s, fire in their veins roaring to life.

Will is so bad at resisting this.

Resisting _Tom._

_(oh, how utterly unapologetic he is about it as well)_

A low grunt in vibrates from the back of Will’s throat as he moves his hands to cradle Tom’s head, changing the angle to deepen the kiss. Tom whines helplessly into it and Will can feel his whole body responding to the sound with throbbing need to be _closer to him._

He’s acutely aware of Tom wrapping his arms around his neck, fingers carding through Will’s short hair.

The kiss turns messy with sliding tongues and teeth, with sighs of pleasure pouring out in between.

Tom tilts his head better and Will turns his attention to Tom’s throat. He presses hot kisses down the column of it, nipping the soft skin under Tom’s jaw, and with a needy groan, Tom throws his head back, hips rolling into Will’s.

Will moves his thigh between Tom’s legs, just to feel him arching into it, chasing that pressure and glorious white-hot friction building between them like a roll of summer thunderstorm.

Tom pulls him closer and Will comes to him, willingly, blind and desperate.

Air between them is charged, rattling with electric tension and god, Will _wants_ him with such fervor it strips his edges and seams open.

The next kiss is more like panting harshly into each other’s mouths, both of them shaking.

Hot blood pounds in Will’s temples, each beat chanting:

_Love you, love you – you are my everything, I love you -_

His breathing harsh in his ears, Will parts, just an inch, following after Tom’s cupid’s bow like he can’t help himself now that he’s allowed.

Tom’s gorgeous in this slanted kitchen light, his cheeks are painted red, lips bitten and full, the long dark lashes curving with delicate flutter.

A trembling exhale gets punched out of Will’s chest as he reaches again for Tom, running his thumb tenderly on Tom’s bottom lip.

Drinking him in. Every detail, every gold-tinted curl in that tousled mess of hair, that lively, _yearning_ star-shine in his gaze, the blue nearly eclipsed by the same deep-cutting longing that Will feels in his skin and bones.

_Oh, how he feels it._

_Every bit of it, the same as him._

_But..._

”Joe’s going to be home any minute now,” Will murmurs, his voice husky, rough, even in his own ears, but he can’t bring himself to tear away from Tom.

Disappointed Tom makes a face, but he’s not serious. He distracts himself by burying his fingers further into Will’s hair, his fingertips pressing into Will’s scalp.

”Christ, when he’s gonna propose to Maggie and move out? Could have the whole flat to ourselves,” Tom whispers and Will can hear the smile in his voice.

With a chuckle Will brushes his nose into Tom’s and slips his other hand under the hem of Tom’s shirt, the calloused pad of his thumb finding that soft, sensitive skin.

Tom’s breathing stutters and shivering he shifts in Will’s arms. ”Oi, stop ticklin’ me,” he snickers, bumping his head into Will’s.

”Sorry.” He doesn’t pull his hand away, but his palm stays splayed on Tom’s waist. ”But that would be nice if he does move out.”

” _If?_ D’you reckon he won’t? Blimey, no way, it’s ’when’, right, I’m gonna be optimistic here, the bugger’s better move at _some_ point.”

Will laughs, a low rasp of it scratching at his throat. ”Until then.”

He tightens his grip around Tom’s waist and buries his head into the warm, familiar crook of Tom’s neck. _Home._

Tom leans into Will’s embrace. ”Yeah, ’till then.”

+

Next week, London becomes bitterly cold; freezing northern winds tear through the boroughs, dirty streets, through the apartments and chimneys, and it’s so  _horribly cold._

None of them are strangers to being cold, so cold it soaks into their very pores, until it’s all they know, but with that experience they unanimously agree to gather every single blanket, duvet and scarf from their closets and bundle themselves for the nights.

Lying in his cot, Will can  _hear_ the chattering of Tom’s teeth in the next room over, the way he shifts on the bed, the springs screeching under him as he struggles to find a comfortable position. 

It’ll probably take a while, Will thinks. Back in France, Will remembers Tom running hot, even then, but tolerating the cold even worse.

Will’s hearing perks as he makes out Tom sighing in frustration, then him getting up and padding over the door, his footsteps faint.

“Will?” Tom whispers into the darkness of the flat. “Will, you asleep?” 

Will turns his head from the pillow to blink sleepily at him, at his bundled up silhouette on the doorstep.

“No, why?” he grunts, voice gruff from disuse. “You all right?” 

“ _No,_ I’m not bloody all right, am I, I’m freezin’ my arse off,” Tom complains, still somehow managing to keep his voice a whisper. “Can you – come sleep with me? In my bed?” 

The pulse of Will’s heart lurches  in instinctive fear  before the alarm fad es from the back of his skull, warmth wash ing across his mind.  _It’s all right. There’s no need to worry, Joe knows._ _It’s safe._

“Yeah.” 

He can make out Tom pausing in surprise. “You will?”

“Yeah, wait a second.” 

Will gathers his own blankets around him and follows Tom into his room.

The silence, the stillness of the apartment feels separate from the rest of the world, all in its entirety, almost infinite. Trapped in time. Just the cold and snow gathering on the windowsills, a moment of agelessness and tranquillity that comes with night time and passing seasons.

Tom’s already on the bed, curled into as small as he can make himself. Will slips behind him, throwing all of his blankets on both of them. Immediately Tom shuffles to turn on the bed and burrows himself against Will’s chest like a lazy cat, settling into the planes and lines of Will’s body with instinctive ease.

“Oh, thank god, you’re warm,” Tom whispers and sighs with contentment. 

“And your feet are _freezing_. Here, give me your hands.” 

It takes a bit of maneuvering but soon, Will’s large, work-worn hands engulf Tom’s own, his thumbs massaging warmth back to his cold skin. Will can hear Tom’s breathing hitching in the shadows.

“...feels good.” 

Will runs his thumb over Tom’s knuckles and lifts his hand to press a gentle kiss on the back of it.

He hears Tom laugh, but it’s a breathless, fond sound. “You’re so sappy.”

“Suppose I am.” 

Not that Will’s sorry about that, either. 

Tom nestles closer, inhales slowly and Will can feel his sides, his belly rising, expanding with that deep, content breath.

“D’you think you can sleep?” Tom asks quietly. 

Will considers this for a moment and says truthfully:

“… think so, yeah.” 

“You sure? ‘Cause I – that was selfish of me… to just bloody wake you up like that just ‘cause I _was cold.”_

Will’s heart squeezes painfully.

“I wasn’t asleep,” he replies, running his palm down on Tom’s side in an attempt to soothe him and the weight of Tom’s body eases into his. “And… I’d rather be here.” 

Tom makes a very faint noise, like a shaky inhale sucked between his teeth and after a moment, he burrows deeper into Will’s body.

“M’glad.” 

“...sappy,” Will teases him now and hears Tom snort like he often does when he hears a bad joke. 

“Oh, shut up.” He huffs out another laugh, unable to help himself. “G’night, Will.” 

“Night.” 

+

They sleep, curled into each other, legs tangled under the blankets.

+

Sometimes Will’s dreams are bullets, ricocheting off rusted metal,  _ting-ting-ting,_ ringing and buzzing in his ears, sometimes it’s blood-soaked mud slipping under his boots, sometimes it’s filthiness under his nails, itchiness in his skin, sometimes it’s  _corpses, corpses,_ decaying and skeletal and dead and bleached under the pale sun above the mine-ravaged fields - 

Sometimes his dreams are violent and brutal that make him gurgle like he’s dying in there, all over again, a broken mess of bones and flesh and scars.

But then slowly, light and life trickle back in, washing it all clean, allowing soft things, kindness and understanding to take root, take place and grow. Allows him to breathe, his lungs full of crisp oxygen.

It does not fix things –  _(does not fix_ _**him** _ _)_ and Will has accepted that about himself, but it’s a good beginning. 

+

In the morning, awareness comes back to Will. He’s pleasantly warm all over again, buried deep under several blankets, his nose pressed into Tom’s neck. Some point during the night Tom’s turned around, still clutching at Will’s arm.

N ow he feels the consequences of that, n umbness prickles through the muscles in his arm but Will’s content  enough  not to move. Not yet. 

He doesn’t even pretend how much he enjoys this. The closeness, the simple intimacy of just sharing a bed, skin on skin without him wanting to crawl out of his rib cage, without him flinching and anxiously navigating between mines.

Will can barely wrap his mind around how different it can be now, with Tom.

Tom just  winds his arms around Will, a warm, solid, safe presence, understanding what it meant there and then here and how jagged the  _real life_ felt afterwards,  ugly, backwards,  rusted-over and ill-fitting. 

_(with all the wounded, terribly splintered parts of will._ _Again and always, not flinching, not even blinking, just meeting him half-way_ _)_

Yet still somehow… Tom wanting this just as much. A life with Will. 

_ Peaceful existing.  _

_I can’t believe I can have this. Be happy after everything._

It still sometimes makes his ears ring as if he’s been slammed sideways with a sledgehammer, makes him  jittery all over and then wanting to kiss Tom with all the tender ache and sweetness clogging his entire being, from the ridges of his spine to his feet. 

The need, the  deep-seated want to make Tom happy as well.  _After everything_ _Tom had_ _gone through_ _himself_ _, suffered and clawed his way from._

Will’s snapped out of his thoughts when he feels Tom stirring awake.

“Mornin’,” Tom mumbles, his voice thick and scratchy from sleep and turns to glance at Will over his shoulder. They share a gentle, soft kiss, just a _hello, good morning._ “Did y’get any sleep?” 

“I did,” Will hums. “Did you?” 

“Mmh-hmm.” 

Then Tom leans back, presses his hips back into Will’s front, perhaps accidentally to adjust his position on the bed, and really, there’s no hiding the half-hardness in Will’s underwear.

Tom doesn’t exactly pause – of course he doesn’t, Will thinks there might be very little that can actually shock him – and rolls his hips again, this time on purpose. Definitely experimental in nature.

_This little gremlin._

“Really?” Will asks, amused and raises an eyebrow at Tom’s mischievous grin. 

A burst of laughter comes from Tom. ”Yeah, really. This all right?”

_Yes._

Will doesn’t even really think about it when he bends his head down to kiss the back of Tom’s neck, soft and wet, tasting the salt of sweat and the heady musk  of  purely  _Tom._

“It is,” he murmurs into Tom’s skin. 

Tom sighs softly, a pleasant shiver going through his body, tilting his head to give Will more room.

“D’you think we can…?” 

“If you can keep quiet.” 

“Pfft, ‘course I can _._ ” 

Will  doesn’t have it in him to  point otherwise , because Tom, by nature, isn’t quiet. 

Instead he  chuckles into the hollow of Tom’s throat, his hand sneaking over to Tom’s chest, the large expanse of his hot calloused palm dragging to Tom’s heart – feeling that  _thump-thump-thump_ pounding with lively, powerful beats against his touch, and Tom goes nearly boneless at  that. 

He turns on the mattress, more or less aligned now, and Will can see his eyes are dark, sort of glassy, searing into Will’s. Tom takes Will’s wrist into his hand, with such gentleness and pulls it between them to press against where Tom’s hard already, straining against the fabric of his underwear. 

God, with all the petal pink colour glowing on Tom’s face, just pure affection reflecting back at him, Will is helpless against it. He doesn’t even remember when he’s wanted anyone so much, so viscerally, with every fiber and molecule of his being. 

_(to make him come, to see him completely unravelled, to protect him, to support him, to make him happy - )_

Will’s fingers cup and pet over Tom’s hardened length, and he can hear the heavy break in Tom’s breathing.

“ _Oh...”_

That softest sound shatters between them.

Tom’s eyes flutter shut at the sensation, his cherry red lips parted and when he looks at Will again, Will is startled to witness so much desperate want directed at him. They’re clumsy to pull their underwear down, but quick and  _eager._ Tom can’t handle the separation any longer and kisses Will, long and deep. 

Will’s fingers wrap around Tom’s cock, and Tom whines into the messy kiss.  With that, all that protectiveness loses ground to  sharp hunger. As Will strokes Tom from the base to the tip, his thumb brushing over the weeping slit, Tom’s hand find Will’s shoulder, gripping him. 

It’s a privilege, Will thinks as the lust-hazy clouds in the corners of his brain, to see Tom like this. Thrumming with life, vulnerable and completely undone by pleasure.

Will gets a hand around them both – the angle is a bit awkward but Will thinks it doesn’t matter because Tom moans, a beautiful broken sound that makes the heat burn fever bright in the pit of Will’s stomach.

“Easy, easy...” Will murmurs, his voice gone all rough gravel. Tom’s hips keep rolling in the grip, their hot, wet cocks sliding as Will’s fingers tighten and loosen around them. “That’s it, love...” 

Tom’s getting close, Will can tell by the way his rhythm falters. He pulls back just to rest his forehead against Will’s, panting into his mouth, breathing heavy, quick and shallow. With his other hand, Tom reaches to cradle the base of Will’s skull as if to anchor himself for dear life.

Tom’s gorgeous when he comes.

Will could write lines and lines of poetry of it, of sheer wonder of seeing him like this.

Tom’s whole body curves into a beautiful arch as he spills between them, eyes tightly closed, and Will keeps murmuring senseless praise and love into his sweaty skin, nuzzling his neck through the aftershocks and lets Tom hold onto him.

Will’s absolutely captivated by everything, the vivid candy pink hue on Tom’s face spreading down to his shuddering chest, the way his long eyelashes fan over the apples of his cheeks and flutter as if he’s still overwhelmed by pleasure, and Will -

\- Will can feel himself hurtling toward the edge, rhythm going off-kilter.

The ecstasy coils tighter and tighter in Will’s organs, something larger and pulsing before it snaps loose inside him and explodes into red stars under his eyelids. It ebbs back whitening around his vision, and Will’s lost to that same pleasure, washing through him, leaving him wrecked open and _raw._

Tom hums, pulls him closer and kisses him lazily through his orgasm, open-mouthed and sated.

They are messy and out of breath but _god,_ Will’s whole body quivers with slow embers of burnt out euphoria. He kisses back, relishing the closeness, the feeling of _Tom,_ his hot skin brushing against Will’s, and he’s just so stupidly _happy._

After a moment, Will feels, rather than hears, Tom’s giggle, bubbling from his chest. “That was bloody _amazing._ Hell of a way to wake up, innit.”

Will chuckles back fondly, running his thumb across Tom’s jawline. “Yeah, it was.”

“You’re not sleepin’ in that cot again, no way.”

“Yours is more comfortable,” Will agrees mildly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile and waits. Tom lets out a joyous laugh.

“Oi, _what?_ Oh, I see how it is, you scoundrel, only in this for my bed, are you?”

Will smirks in response and that’s enough for Tom to lunge at Will, tackling him on the bed.

That’s how they end up playfully wrestling, and somehow Will loses his heart even more. It means more than he could ever be able to say. _The ease,_ _the laughter,_ _the intimacy, the acceptance._

“No,” Will says, his voice close to rough rasping as Tom’s on top of him, straddling his waist and their fingers are intertwined on the bed, either side of Will’s head. “Not just for your bed.”

Tom beams at him, so utterly lovely, debauched and his crinkled eyes _shining._

“Yeah, I figured.”

He leans down to kiss him again as the morning light bathes the room in pale amber radiance.

_Home._

_I love you._

_+_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you've had a wonderful Christmas and holidays and let's keep our fingers crossed for a better year!  
> Anyways, all right, we've crossed to smut over here. Still not really used to writing it to be honest. Thank you all again for reading - and for staying so long with the story, I know it's been a lot - I can't stop being so grateful for you guys, you make my week every single time and I appreciate you all taking the time.  
> Thank you <3


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they enjoy winter fun.

Will has never really considered himself to be an overly festive person but it’s hard to resist Tom’s excitement over Christmas.

(or his daughters’s excitement, for that matter.)

Certainly, it’s not uncommon to hear Tom moving all around the flat, humming and singing softly to himself like he doesn’t quite realize he’s doing it: ” _\- god rest ye merry gentlemen,_ _let nothing you dismay_ _\- ”_ and for all his embarrassed protests that he can’t sing, Will would like to beg to differ.

His voice might be unpolished, perhaps, but it’s genuine, real and Will likes hearing him sing. He likes hearing _Tom,_ in general _._

(for all _will’s_ gruff, half-hearted protests during the war about it, he liked it then, too. and he still likes it now.)

It lulls his busy mind into calm, reassures him.

With Christmas approaching, they receive some beautifully illustrated cards in the mail.

One from Rossi and Cooke, one from _Jondalar_ (who apparently hounded Cooke for an address, much to the man’s annoyance, and sent one), one from Sophie and Lottie (with some flowers drawn on the other side and something that looks a squirrel… or a hamster) and finally one from – to Will’s surprise – his former mother-in-law, Mrs. Sandford. Will’s not sure what it means besides manners, but he’s even less sure if it means that Mary’s family still holds a grudge against him.

Then he notices a letter.

Will doesn’t really think much of it and turns the envelope around, and his eyebrows shoot up when he reads his name neatly written on top of it.

He hasn’t registered pausing in the hall before Tom peeks from the living room.

”Will? What d’you got there?”

The furrow between Will’s eyebrows deepen, and he has a horrible doubt sinking in, his mood already souring. _Of course._ With a heavy sigh, he opens the letter and says to Tom:

”My parents, apparently.”

Tom tilts his head, frowning. ”Huh. That’s something, not like them, is it?”

”No.”

Last time Will heard from them was on autumn; he had informed them about the change in his address, about the divorce and his current living situation in general.

They had been surprised, shocked – Will wasn’t blind enough to miss the _disappointment_ seeping from the ink.

They wore it well, often enough.

Will loves his parents – he does, but… family is sometimes complicated and often have layers and layers of misunderstandings and ill-fitting intentions, gaps between generations and upbringing that strip away anything else that might last.

It’s a tangle of expectations, shallow surfaces, stiffness around the edges, manners and _trying_ to be better despite it all _._

Will appreciates the trying, however. The war didn’t ease any of those issues festering deep inside, slowly ripping out the scabs, inch by inch. They tried, of course, but they could not understand everything that Will dragged away from the trenches.

_What it meant, why he was like that now, why he couldn’t just -_

_\- be like he was before._

Will sits down on the couch beside Tom and opens the envelope. Inside, there’s a card, a Christmas greetings card and on the other side, there are a few rows of neatly written lines.

” _Merry Christmas, William,_

_we hope you have stayed in good health. How are the girls? We’d like to see you at some point before the New Year or the beginning of January. Girls as well, if that’s manageable, given the current circumstances._

_We are both well here, Father has recovered from his pneumonia as well. The air has done wonders for his health._

_Merry Christmas to you, dear, and to your flat mates._

_\- Mother and Father.”_

”Oh, that’s kinda nice, innit?” Tom asks as Will hands him the card, and Tom turns it around. ”Huh. What do you think?”

Will settles better on the touch, resting his head on the back of it and stares at the ceiling. Weariness slithers in his skin again like it often does when his family is concerned.

”I should,” he says with a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache throbbing behind his forehead.

”But you don’t wanna?”

”I… I don’t know. Not particularly, but...” Will sighs again, this time with more age and exhaustion than he remembers. ”It’s… it’s not like your family. With Joe and your Mum.” He looks aside to Tom, meeting his gaze across and it’s calm, curious.

”Yeah, you’ve mentioned, once or twice,” Tom says and presses his cheek against Will’s shoulder, and tension slowly starts to drain from Will’s shoulder blades.

”Think I have to, though.”

He sees Tom’s eyebrows twitch like he doesn’t quite agree with Will, but seems lost in thought. Will nudges Tom slightly.

”What?”

”Well, you don’t have to _do_ anything, yeah?” Tom points out thoughtfully. ”You don’t have to. S’not like you owe ’em a bloody thing.”

Will knows that but it’s different, hearing it from someone else.

But they are his parents. He hasn’t seen them in a while.

He turns his head to press his lips into Tom’s hair. ”Want to come with me?” he murmurs, letting Tom’s scent of soap, pine wood and something like warm gingerbread comfort him.

”Oh, what, me? To Bristol? Didn’t realize they invited me too.”

”I’d like you to.”

Tom angles his head to study him and there’s that gentle curve to his mouth, looking older but still sweet.

_(tom’s seen so much, suffered through so much pain and heartache, he still smiles without bitterness or spiked teeth and will admires it, won’t ever take it for granted, not even for one second, no matter how many smiles he sees)_

Tom leans to kiss Will briefly, just a chaste press to his mouth but Will breathes deeply, sinking into the familiar touch, his eyes falling shut.

”Yeah, you silly plonker. I’ll come with you.” Tom grins, his dimples showing all fond mischief and gentleness. ”All moral support and filling the silence or somethin’. I’m good at that. Could even juggle if it helps the situation.”

Will snorts, but relief fills his chest through the cracks. It doesn’t erase all of the sudden anxiety brought by the card, but he does feel lighter already.

Tom has that effect.

_(a part of will does wonder if he should just go alone – that he should spare tom all of **that** )_

Instead of wondering it further, Will just reaches his arm around Tom’s shoulders, relishes the feeling of him burrowing into his side and they just… stay for a moment.

+

They decide to visit Bristol on the first weekend of January.

+

Next week, they get distracted by all the chores as Christmas approaches. By the end of the week, several blizzards bring large snow banks by the streets, the air is crisp and crystal clear to breathe, even through the smoke.

” - no, Scho, you’re not comin’ with me, are ya – how’s that supposed to work? Not gonna spoil any bloody surprises to you before the Eve,” Tom says laughing and shoves Will playfully to the kitchen.

”Don’t spend all your money at once,” Joe hollers by the table where he’s nibbling on a biscuit. Tom whirls to squint at his grinning face. ”Just saying.”

”Keep being a bastard and you’re gettin’ _coal,”_ Tom snickers.

”Dunno, Tommy, could be useful, it’s still freezing in here.”

Tom throws a mitten at him, which Joe throws back. Finally Tom puts them on, says goodbye to Will, even presses a quick kiss on his cheek and leaves. They can hear him stomping down the stairs.

Joe chuckles. ”I’m not really worried about his spending habits, just keepin’ him on his toes,” he says to Will and glances him over the biscuit. ”Actually, Will – I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Will stiffens, since in his opinion no one who has ever said those words had any _good_ things to tell, but warily tries to focus on threading his sewing needle.

(it doesn’t work too well.)

”What?” he grunts.

Joe shifts his weight on the chair and scratches the floor under him. ”Nothing bad, I promise,” he says neutrally and Will _thinks_ he can hear a shade of lightness in there, which, to be honest, doesn’t reassure him at all. Then, Joe seems to sober up. ”Look, Will, about what I said before… about you two…”

Will’s spine snaps straight, ice crawling down between the vertebras, and he stares at Joe, unmoving.

_(a little pessimistic voice hisses, ’this is it, it’s done, it’s over’)_

(he banishes that voice away and focuses on Joe.)

Joe stops as well and rolls his eyes. ”Stop, I’m not taking any of it back, you idiot. I’m happy for you, honestly, nothing about what I said has changed so calm down already, mate.”

Will doesn’t.

Unimpressed, Joe eyes him but then apparently comes to a conclusion he should just continue whatever he wants to say. Clearing his throat, he says: ”It was nothing personal, back then. You _are_ a good chap, Will, I know you are. But he’s my little _brother._ And after – after what happened to him, I just - ”

Joe cuts himself off, leans back sharply to blink rapidly. Will recognizes that deep-rooted anguish that gets stuck behind Joe’s teeth, the similar torment as his own from before.

Joe swallows, shakes his head to gather himself and continues: ”I just wanted him to be happy. I did mean it when I said I suspected how he felt, ’cause honestly, he really can’t hide his feelings for shite. Never has. See-through as a damn paper napkin, he is. And you… Will, you were married.”

”I know,” Will manages to say, the grittiness in his voice clawing in his throat, trying to get control over that painfully heavy sensation lodged in his chest. What a mess it was, he thinks now, more than familiar with the heaviness that memory comes with.

Tom was hurting, Mary was hurting, the girls were anxious, sensing something was so terribly wrong, everybody was _miserable_.

Something helpless swims in Joe’s eyes. ”I was worried he’d get more hurt ’cause I… I thought it had to be hopeless.”

Will closes his eyes, breathing now through his nose. _God, Tom...I’m so sorry._

For being so blind to Tom’s suffering. For not being able to make a damn decision and prolonging everybody’s pain. For being a coward.

Joe, who examines Will closely, continues: ”To be frank, I still am sort of worried, because this… I can’t imagine you two have it easy. Or will have it easy, for that matter.” He rubs his mouth again in thought. ”But it really wasn’t anything personal,” he repeats as if he’s afraid Will doesn’t believe him. ”I saw him heartbroken before and after everything that’s what stuck with me.”

”...we talked about it, yes.”

”Oh, you did?” Joe sounds surprised as if he hadn’t expected them to have a conversation about such a thing. ”Well… thank God, that’s good.”

It’s not hard for Will to understand Joe’s worry or his protectiveness, so that’s why he says very quietly, truth seeping out of the very marrow of his being: ”I meant it as well. He’s… the one I chose and will choose. Again and again. Until… I suppose he grows tired of me.”

Joe scoffs. ”Are you joking? Honestly, I should sock you for being that stupid alone. Christ on the cross, _’grows tired’._ Good God. I honestly doubt it. Well, I can’t see the future, but as of now? As of _before?_ Will, you make him so happy. I see it every day. I saw it before. I might not understand everything but I know bloody love when I damn well see it. Or hear it,” he adds dryly and Will _chokes._ ”Yeah, unfortunately for everyone involved, as it turns out I’m not deaf, either.”

Mortification flares on Will’s gut, and his face heats up. _Oh God._

Joe raises an eyebrow at him.

A beat passes and Will feverishly scrambles around his useless brain to figure out how to phrase a proper apology for… deflowering the man’s brother, he supposes.

Joe seems to take pity on him, because he snorts and continues with much steadier tone: ”Anyway, despite the fact that I want to get some earplugs, I’m glad it’s you. And I’m glad you are happier as well. At least you… seem to be?”

”I am,” Will replies, swallowing past the wool and sand stuck in his airways. _He is. God, he really is. He could bleed to death with it._

The hard line on Joe’s forehead smooths and he reaches to squeeze at Will’s shoulder.

”I’m glad to hear it. I mean it. Thank you, Will. For making my little brother happy.”

Overwhelmed by gratitude – Joe’s and his own – Will nods and tries to find some words that would be enough. To convey just how much _this_ means to him.

 _(how much_ _**tom** _ _means to him.)_

”Thank you,” he settles to say, fully aware what a worn-out phrase it is, but it’s all he has left to offer; his voice wavering and rough, creaking under the emotion and hopes Joe understands it as well. ”For giving me a chance to try to do so.”

Judging by the wet glaze in Joe’s eyes – so similar like on that day in April 1917 – it’s so startlingly happy that this time it makes a lifetime of difference.

+

Will tells Tom about the exchange later, and Tom’s jaw drops. ”What, he _knows?!”_

Will can’t bring himself to be too sorry about it, since he had his own private freak out about two hours ago, and he just shakes his head. ”Told you weren’t quiet,” he says, amused.

”Yeah, but – _Christ._ That’s so bloody embarrassing. Can’t we just throw him out and be done with it?”

_+_

”Oi, is this a joke, Blake, are ya making _fun of me?”_

”What the hell are you on about, you bastard, _no?”_

”Stop sulkin’, Charlie, not like they did on purpose. Just fucking eat one, would ya.”

Cooke scowls at the tin box full of gingerbread men, more or less suffered by Tom’s baking, his eyebrow twitching in irritation and without saying another word, he shoves a treat into his mouth.

Rossi rolls his eyes to the ceiling. ”Unbelievable. Why do you gotta pick a fight about that? Christ. Thanks, Blake, appreciate this – you didn’t have to.”

”They’re the left-overs,” Tom teases back, not even blinking at Cooke’s grouchiness.

”See, fuckin’ knew it!” Cooke exclaims, his mouth still full of cookie crumbs. ”Still not givin’ these back, on – you know – principle.” A pause. ”Huh, well, they’re not half bad.”

”He means thank you, the damn heathen,” Rossi adds with a huff and leans over to take one from the box.

”Oi, back off, they’re mine!”

They squabble, but it’s not exactly serious by the looks of the whole thing but you’re never really sure with Cooke, as Will’s learnt. Sure enough, the bickering dissipates and Cooke turns towards them and Rossi busies himself with his glass.

”So, what, you lads won’t be ’round here durin’ the Eve, then?” Cooke asks, not even bothering to pretend he’s not reaching for another biscuit.

”Nah, gonna spend it at my Mum’s.”

”Out to outskirts of Essex, wasn’t it? Must be nice,” Rossi says, easy as he takes another biscuit. ”Christmas at countryside?”

”Bet it smells like bloody cows,” Cooke snorts.

”Oi, don’t be a bastard, you wouldn’t know a cow if it bit you on the arse,” Tom huffs and tosses a napkin at Cooke, who rolls his eyes, abandons the biscuit tin to crumple the napkin and throw it back at Tom across the table.

It’s just another bout of playful bickering, horsing around for the lack of a better word, but suddenly Cooke tenses and his jaw tightens into hardened lines.

”What?” he suddenly snaps, and Tom actually jumps at his harsh tone. But Cooke is not looking at them – no, he’s glaring at an elderly man a few feet away from their table. A man – now that Will has noticed him – who is doing a rather bad job at pretending that he’s not openly frowning at them.

Or more accurately, frowning at _Cooke._

At his not-so neatly folded shirt sleeve.

”Charlie,” Will hears Rossi say under his breath, more like a terse warning.

Cooke ignores him. ”What?” he repeats, now challenging, his voice harder, rougher. He reminds Will of a dog with flattened ears. ”Never seen a man without ’is bloody arm, that it, mate?”

The man closes his mouth with an audible click and straightens under his stylish coat. He pales, then flushes, and a storm of emotions flicker on the man’s weathered face, and Will knows that look. He’s seen it plenty of times before.

_Disappointment, disgust, bitterness, fury, grief, loss._

Without a word, the man turns from them quickly and Cooke’s lip curls downwards, making his face look like worn-out driftwood.

”Fuckin’ _twat_ ,” he scoffs, his hackles still raised. ”It’s like like we’re a fucking freak show, ain’t it? Like it’s our fault we made it and their lads didn’t.”

Will’s chest churns with remnants of acid and smoke, then it hardens into sharp fractures and walls.

”Better ignore them,” he grunts and takes a swig of his ale. It tastes stale. Next to him Tom shifts uncomfortably, his fingers tugging at the fraying hem of his jumper, a frown starting to form on his brows.

”Yeah,” he replies, his thumb moving to go over his knuckles – a nervous gesture. ”I mean… they just see the end result, don’t they?”

”That’s on them,” Cooke snaps. ”Ain’t our fault, is it, not dyin’ with the rest of the poor fucking sods.”

”I met this one lass coupla months ago,” Rossi says with a quiet voice, an odd, far-away glaze in his eye, and Cooke’s attention snaps back on him. ”She said all the lads she went to school with, all the lads that she danced with, were all dead.”

”Well, there you go, what can you expect?” Cooke barks, getting more wound up. ”After what happened? What the shit show was in the end? They should know then!”

”Charlie, knock it off.” Rossi drags a tired hand down his face and shoots an apologizing glance at them across the table. ”This was supposed to be ’bout Christmas and holiday spirit or – or whatever.”

”Well, that twat ruined it, so tell it to him, would ya.”

”Ignore him,” Will grunts, almost on auto-pilot. ”Never mind his stares.”

”Yeah, he can piss up a rope,” Tom adds.

”I know. But… let’s not dwell on it, right? C’mon, now, lads,” Rossi says, a little tired, a little forced, and Will takes pity on him. However, before he can say anything else, even to form a plan, Tom speaks up:

”All right, I’m gonna buy you blokes the next round.”

Rossi blinks, taken aback. ”Oh! Well – that’s grand, thanks, Blake.”

Cooke seems torn between suspicion and his desire for a stronger drink but finally grunts: ”Whatever – your wallet, Blake. Not gonna refuse free alcohol. Make it absinthe, would ya.”

”Pfft, shut up, you’ll get what I buy you, Cooke.”

As Tom gets up, he squeezes Will’s hand gently under the table before he rises from his seat and makes his way to Mr. O’Brien.

Afterwards, the atmosphere feels tense, sort of scrubbed for about five minutes, but then Tom doubles his efforts to make Rossi and Cooke smile – it creaks with rust and saturated by the nightmares and survivor’s guilt – _all of theirs_ – but soon, Rossi breaks first, laughing at some stupid thing Tom and Joe did as children.

” - bet you were a nightmare brat, Blake, you probably hid frogs under furniture - ”

”Oi, did not, how _dare_ you - ”

Rossi and Cooke burst into laughter.

Will watches this, and a part of him feels weary, decades older than these two but when Tom turns to beam at him, the brittle, ancient part in him recognizes _that sameness_ in Tom’s bright gaze.

 _I see you,_ Will thinks faintly.

And the warmth, sweetness, genuine love reflects back from Tom, eclipses that exhaustion and age and says _I see you, too._

Will thinks about it. Life after everything; thinking about it feels often jagged, like a tender bruise, thinking about _before_ it all exploded in shrapnels and red smoke, how much it _hurt,_ but… life is a journey, after all.

A long one, given the chance.

A journey, with slopes and uphills and downhills, with cutting rocks and easy steps, joys and sorrows in equal measures. Sometimes it’s both at the same time. Sometimes it’s bittersweet.

But laughter feels always better.

+

Days go by surprisingly quickly as they often do when Christmas is approaching.

When Will and Tom come to visit on the 22nd of December, Mary’s in the middle of hanging some paper stars on the window panels.

”Higher! Put it ’igher!” Lottie pleads, staring at the window with a craned neck.

”Here?” Mary moves the star over. ”I thought the moon should go here.”

”Next to it!” Sophie encourages. ”Put it next to mine!”

”Ooh, that’s really pretty, innit,” Tom says as they let themselves in.

The girls’s heads whip around, and they squeal. ” _Da! Uncle Tom!”_

Mary’s face softens around the worn shadows and uses the girls’s distraction to hang the paper star to its original place and gets down from the chair.

”Merry Christmas, you two,” she says warmly as she fussies with the hem of her dress.

”Merry Christmas,” Will says back and after making sure Tom’s keeping the girls occupied, he hands Mary the bag, filled with their Christmas presents.

She raises an eyebrow. ”Oh, how sneaky of you,” she replies wryly, but accepts the bag.

Behind them Lottie shrieks with gleeful laughter – Tom’s hauled her on his shoulders and Sophie’s impatiently waiting for her own turn.

”He looks well,” Mary says aside to Will and he thinks he can hear a shade of relief in there.

”You could ask him yourself,” he points out dryly.

”Oh, don’t start, William. I won’t be rude about it,” she huffs and disappears for a moment to hide the bag.

Will turns to pick Sophie in his arms. ”Hello, Soph.”

Sophie wraps her arms around him and rests her head on the crook of Will’s neck. ”Hi, Da,” she says, her fingers playing with the thin-braided pattern on Will’s jumper.

Will kisses her forehead tenderly. ”How are you?”

”I’m fine! I have a new book to read.”

”Oh? Did you already finish the Jungle Book?”

Sophie makes a face. ”Grandmother read me rest of it.”

 _Ah, of course she did._ ”I wanted to read it myself,” she complains. ”And she read Kaa all wrong, it was _stupid_.”

”Hey now,” Will says, amused. ”Tell me how would you read Kaa, then?”

Sophie squints at him, but then she straightens in his arms and says with a great dedication to her role:

”’ _Ssssleeeep little man-cub, sssleeeep...”_ Will pauses to process all of that and laughs, low and fond. Pleased, Sophie beams at him. ”She didn’t hiss, Da, he’s a snake, he’s supposed to _hiss._ With his tongue all...”

She trails off and frowning, she searches for the right word and looks questioningly at Will.

”Forked,” he supplies.

”Ugh, really, was it?”

”Yes. Snakes have forked tongues.”

She wrinkles her nose. ”I don’t like it, it doesn’t sound right.”

Another delighted giggle steals Will’s attention, and he glances over Sophie’s head at Tom, who is sitting on the first step of the staircase and Lottie’s showing him her toys – that also includes the tiny, wooden fox that has suffered many bumps and bruises during these months, but seeing it, Tom looks so happy Will thinks he can see Tom’s bottom lip quivering.

”Now, girls, to the living room, it’s drafty in here,” Mary herds them along but stops in front of Tom. Her face is open in the warm light. ”Hello, Tom.”

Flushing, Tom stands up and offers her a shy smile in return. ”Hi. Merry Christmas.”

”You as well. How have you been?” she asks, and there’s no needles, no hungry curiosity behind it all anymore.

Something in Tom seems to breathe out.

”Been all right, thanks,” he replies, the shyness softening even more, and Will can see just how sincere he is. Everything in him _bleeds_ with it, every laughter line, every twitch of his lips, he _is_ that, he is _sincere_ , body and soul.

_He gives so many parts of himself to the world._

Mary, all sharp wit and observation skills polished by her upbringing, tilts her head and perhaps she sees it, too. Joe is right, Tom doesn’t know how to hide his feelings all too well.

”I’m glad to hear it,” she says. ”Come now, wouldn’t you come inside?”

”Actually, we figured – Will, don’t look at me like that, _blimey,_ what’s that – fine, _I_ thought if we could take the girls to sledding today?”

Mary stops, her eyes widened. ”Sledding?” she repeats.

Tom bows his head, bashful and a little awkward. ”Yeah. I mean, I got a sled from work. Not like, _bought_ it, ’cause I definitely didn’t but I guess my boss got sick of seein’ them in the storage. So ’cause we don’t got much use to it ourselves, we figured… maybe the girls would like it?”

”It’s – it’s with you? Right now?”

”Yeah, it’s there, we left it outside.”

Mary stares at Tom, and Will can see a mix of emotions flicker across her face; _confusion, bewilderment, amazement… awe._

She regains control over herself, meets Tom’s eyes and says with a slightly hoarse voice: ”I… I think they would absolutely love it, Tom. Thank you.”

Tom’s grin widens. ” _Brilliant.”_

+

They take the girls to sledding.

Mary stays behind – perhaps to have some precious time for herself.

The girls are ecstatic over the whole thing.

It’s a cold evening, the air is crisp and clear, the powdery snow sprays and splashes as they slide down a snowy hill in the park – the girls scream in utter joy _,_ their woollen hats askew on their tousled hair, their eyes _sparkling._

They take turns, he and Tom, sledding with the girls.

Coldness and the speed bites their cheeks red. Will thinks his whole chest might cave in under all that affection and adoration that swell inside his body.

Seeing his daughters laugh and race up the hill, enjoying this. _Enjoying life._

Soon Lottie trudges her way over snow drifts to them, her hat hanging half on her eyes and she sticks her arm to them.

”Mitten’s not staying,” she declares and waves the offensive article of clothing in question.

Will sees the problem and puts the mitten back on her tiny hand. ”Where’s your thumb?” he murmurs and she chirps out:

”Here!”

She wiggles her thumb and Will manages to get it to the right place and then tugs the coat sleeve on the rest of the mitten.

”There you go,” he says and Tom reaches to fix her hat better on her head.

”Ain’t that better, huh?” Tom asks, grinning, and she giggles and dashes back towards the hill.

There are few other families around them, but the evening’s darkening above the rooftops, the street lights creating a golden halo around the park and it doesn’t take too long for some of them prepare to leave.

Tom elbows Will, and oh, Will recognizes that look – it’s mischief sparkling in those blue, blue eyes, unbridled and _happy,_ a flash of summer skies and butterfly’s wings, a memory of a June breeze in this winter _._

”How about one slide?” Tom asks, and Will raises an eyebrow at him. ”C’mon, just one? You ’n me?”

Will is a careful man. Stoic bastard, someone called him once.

He’s seen hell on Earth, he’s seen ravaged battlefields and true horror what a human being can do to another, and now, he sees Tom Blake, who has seen the same brutality, and this person asks him this innocent question.

_Just fun, just lightness._

_That they can do this. That it’s all right to enjoy these little things. Th_ _at th_ _ey can_ _have_ _this._

_**Together.** _

All that air rushes back into Will’s system, clears his head from smoke and silence, and all those invisible vices around his bones crack loose.

He finds himself smiling at Tom. ”Fine.”

Tom’s eyebrows jump toward his hairline. ”What, really?” he asks, surprised.

”Sure. Or are you taking it back?”

”What, pfft, no way! C’mon. Oi, Sophie!”

+

At first, the girls disapprove – or alternatively, at least find it odd that they want to participate, but after a moment of very serious negotiating, they agree and pull back to the sidelines to watch them with open curiosity.

It’s been years since Will’s done this without the children.

The sled is creaky and wet under them, the wood groans under their weight, but he wraps his arms securely around Tom’s waist, pressing into those familiar planes. Tom’s close, he smells like winter, tea and aftershave, and he turns his head just slightly toward Will and in the dark, he pecks a quick kiss on Will’s cheek.

”Ready?” he asks breathlessly.

Will nods. ”Let’s go.”

Tom kicks them forward and they slide down, in dizzying speed, air rushes in their ears, and Will – well, Will feels like soaring.

+

It’s silly.

It’s fun.

It’s -

\- _happiness._

+

 _It is allowed to enjoy things._ _**They** _ _are allowed to enjoy things._

+

”You went so fast!” Sophie laughs and playfully throws a snow ball at Tom. It hits him on the chest. Tom gasps dramatically, clutches his heart and falls on the snow directly on his back like a proper stage actor.

”Oooh, I’ve been hit, deadly hit that, _urgh –_ Scho, avenge me - ! _”_

_(for a split second, from the memories buried in his too-busy, too-real, too-haunted brain, he jolts as if stuck by a lightning)_

After a few harsh gulps of freezing air, so cold it burns his lungs, Will focuses back on the present. To laughter, to giggles, to scrunching snow under their boots, to the coldness nipping at his fingertips, the scratch of his coat against his skin.

Meanwhile Lottie pokes Tom on the stomach with her mitten and Tom, who apparently didn’t expect _that,_ yelps and squirms out of her reach. Will tenses again, worried she might have accidentally poked at his wound but Tom doesn’t seem to be hurt – instead angling himself to look at her.

”What’re you doing there?” Lottie asks innocently.

”Honestly, Lottie, dunno. Figurin’ I should probably get up, don’t I, s’getting kinda cold.”

”You’re lying in snow,” Lottie nods matter-of-factly.

”Yeah, I am. Seems like a problem, innit. What d’you think about snow angels? Should I make one, now that I’m down here? Should make one, shouldn’t I, s’already like, half done.”

”Make one!”

Tom spreads his arms and legs and paint an angel on the snow. Lottie can’t resist following the example and slumps next to Tom and wiggles her limbs, clumsy but determined.

”There you go! How’d we look, Will?”

”Brilliant,” Will replies, his mouth blossoming into an affectionate smile, so staggeringly tender it hurts but he’s so glad to see this. He wouldn’t trade this for anything.

 _They are m_ _ore than brilliant, radiant than_ _the_ _sun, etched into the whole expanse of his heart._

Tom flashes a victorious grin. ”We’re fantastic.” Suddenly his grin disappears under a frantic hiss: ”Ugh, oh no, no, now there’s snow down in my shirt, I gotta get up, _gotta get up,_ ew, that feels gross.”

+

They take the girls to a street vendor nearby and buy some roasted chestnuts. It smells good with the scent of honey, butter and cinnamon wafting from the pan.

”Did you get it? Need help?” Tom asks Sophie as he kneels to help them to peel the chestnuts.

”No, I think I got it. _Ouch!”_

”Careful, it’s hot,” Will says and hands couple peeled ones to them. ”Here.”

”No, no, I almost got it!”

Tom grins. ”Yeah, keep your own, Scho – oh, you can give me one?”

Will doesn’t even really think about it as he passes half of them over to Tom. It’s just what they do. What they did, before. Meanwhile Sophie finally manages to peel her chestnuts and shows off the end result, proudly.

Will’s lungs feel empty with enormity of all the fierce love he has expanding in his mortal, broken human body, in this moment. It’s good, a simple pleasure. Just… enjoying this one beautiful moment, this piece of winter magic with his children and his man.

When they get back to Mary’s house, the girls swarm her and excitedly chatter to tell her all about their sledding adventures as she tries to get their shoes off without soaking the rest of the carpet.

While they’re waiting for the hallway to clear some room, Will notices some wet slush clinging onto Tom’s hair and reaches absently to brush it off.

”Looks like you shoved your head into a snow drift.”

”Well, you know, I did sorta lie in it. On my back ’n all. Made a proper angel, so… yeah, reckon there’s bound to be some, like, under my shirt, too,” Tom teases back, with dimples cutting beautiful imprints in his candy-pink face.

He allows Will to brush the rest of it off from his hair.

And there, in the dark, hidden by the half-opened door, in the hallway alcove, Will pulls Tom to him and kisses him, and with it, tries to say just how grateful he is. How happy he is. _How much this meant to him._

Tom relaxes and hums into the kiss, smile curving into it.

Will pulls back a few inches, his eyes half-lidded as he watches Tom’s shining, _lovely_ face.

”Thank you,” he says into Tom’s temple, his voice dragging warm and rough notes from the low of his throat.

And Tom understands it.

He pats Will’s chest. ”Yeah. So…what d’you reckon, success, huh?”

Will squeezes the back of Tom’s neck and runs his thumb on the line under Tom’s jaw, up to his ear to massage him behind the pink shell of it.

”More than.”

”Bloody _ace.”_

Will has to agree. He pulls his hand back and they step further in to shed their coats and follow Mary and the girls to the living room.

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're still doing Christmas in this story, magnificently late :D This was supposed to include the Christmas at the Blakes, but it would've been so long so I'm doing that next. I have a week off from work - a vacation!! - so maybe I'll get to it a bit faster, we'll see! Also I wanna say that although I love English language, I'm annoyed it doesn't have enough words for snow and different cold temperatures - one thing that I want to bring over from Finnish xD Hope everybody's year has started okay! Thank you guys again for sticking with this monster of a story! <3


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will and Tom enjoy some well-deserved alone time at the flat and they leave London to spend the Christmas at Mrs. Blake's house.

On the next day, Joe leaves.

”Dunno, you two could still come with me?” he suggests but judging by the smug grin on his face, it’s obvious he’s not expecting a change in their plans.

”Yeah, don’t think so,” Tom snorts and gives him a playful shove. ”Well? Off you go, then, Joe – don’t fall asleep on the way there, you’ll end up in Scotland or something.”

Joe cackles. ”That’d be something of a Christmas adventure, now wouldn’t it?”

”Way to cause Mum gray hair or a heart attack.”

”Nah, I’m not that cruel, you’re right,” Joe agrees and pats his coat pockets to make sure he’s got everything; keys, wallet, pocket watch. ”Well, that’s it, boys, see you tomorrow, then. Have safe travel.”

”You as well,” Will says, nodding.

”Not like we’ve got much say in the matter, yeah?” Tom asks but clasps an arm around Joe’s shoulders in a loose hug.

”Oh, shut up you, don’t even remind me.” Joe laughs, the deep sound booming from his chest. He ruffles Tom’s hair before turning for the door. ”Bye then, and _behave.”_

Tom splutters. ”Wha – _we always do!”_

”I beg to differ, but honestly I think it’s more of a mandatory advice at this point,” Joe says, obviously finding the whole situation hilarious. ”See you two tomorrow.”

With that, he waves his hand and leaves, and Tom frowns at the door, his cheeks gone pink. ”Can you believe that rubbish?” he huffs to Will, embarrassed and buries his face into his hands.

Will chuckles. ”He might be allowed to.”

”Pff, as _if.”_ Tom drops his head on Will’s collarbone and sighs. Will presses his lips onto the crown of Tom’s hair, just a simple kiss. ”Ugh. Still gotta wrap a few things that’re left…”

With a weary sigh, Tom looks up, and Will brushes his thumb under his eye. ”You look tired,” he murmurs.

Tom doesn’t exactly hesitate, but something in him falters. ”Yeah… I mean, I have slept, but… I’ve been thinkin’…”

Will raises an eyebrow. ”About?”

Tom’s teeth sink to his bottom lip. ”I – figured ’cause Joe knows now… maybe I should tell Mum about this, too? About – us?”

Will’s hand stills on Tom’s jaw, still cradling him very gently as he thinks it all over. Warring emotions stretch across his chest like a taut wire, traces of caution, pessimism and nerves bleeding sour acid down to his gut.

 _It won’t work,_ that nasty, old voice hisses in his head. _It’s no use, it won’t end well,_ _nothing good will come of this,_ _they will not be understanding, it’ll end in tears and heartache._

Will breathes through his nose. _No, stop._ He forces to reel himself back from the edge of doubting. He watches Tom’s nervousness; his gaze flickering on Will’s face, gauging and uncertain.

No, Will has to be present. Tom needs this, so Will is going to support him with everything he has.

”What’d you think?” Tom asks, and Will runs his thumb from the bridge of Tom’s nose to his cheekbone. Tension drains from Tom, but he still watches Will, apprehensive.

”If that’s what you want to do, then I’ll be there with you,” he replies quietly.

”Really?”

Will nods. _Always. No matter how it’ll end,_ he thinks to himself.

Tom’s expression fractures under pressure, like cracks on a glacier, and Will can now see the worry, clawing anxiety underneath it.

”I mean – it’s me,” Tom continues, babbling, ”it’s a part of me, I’d – I don’t wanna hide this. Not from them.” He searches again Will’s eyes, and Will nods, moving to cradle his head so very tenderly, his fingers massaging the base of his skull.

”I get it,” Will says again.

Tom breathes out: ”You do?”

”I do.”

Tom’s breathing rattles out of his lungs, wet and shaky.

”I’m fucking terrified, Will,” he says, his own fingers playing with Will’s lapels, to busy himself, to pull Will closer, _both._ ”But… I know I don’t – you know, _have_ to do it, but… it’s my _Mum.”_

 _I know._ Old weariness lodges itself back into Will’s chest cavity. _I know, love._

”We’ll see how it goes,” Will says quietly, which is as close to optimism as he can get at the moment.

Tom seems to be aware of it as well, because he just sighs and leans into Will’s palm. ”You think I’m mental,” he says, but he’s not accusing, merely stating it.

”I don’t. I understand why you’d want to,” Will replies. ”And I think it’s admirable.”

_Brave. Of course Tom is brave._

Tom startles. ”Really?”

”Mmh.” Will tilts Tom’s chin so that their eyes meet; honesty, closeness knitting together between them, opening to that intimacy. ”We’ll see how it goes. I’ll be there with you. No matter what happens.”

”Do you think it’ll end badly?” Tom asks nervously again, and Will hates himself for hesitating.

He hasn’t lied to Tom before… and he’ll be damned if he starts doing so now.

”I don’t know,” he replies honestly and leans to rest his forehead against Tom’s, hoping it’ll ease his nerves. ”I think… it’s always risky. But your family is a good one.”

A long, soft sigh gets punched out of Tom, and he slumps into Will. ”Yeah. I mean I don’t wanna ruin Christmas or anythin’, but if there’s an opportunity… I wanna… at least to try?”

Will nods, his armor melting completely.

_Tom always tries his damn best. Earnest and so very honest._

Will hates that he himself is pragmatic – a brutal contrast with his sharp-edged parts sticking out, logic cutting any softness to shreds, _a bloody goddamn realist,_ not a thing to be proud of in the least, but for Tom’s sake -

_\- for Tom’s sake -_

\- Will desperately wishes everything will work out.

+

That night after showering together, they sleep in Tom’s bed; the sheets are clean and smell like lavender, and Tom nestles into Will, finding his mouth in the dark. They kiss slow and deep, relishing that they are able to do this.

That they are alone, that they have a luxury of enjoying this as much as they want without the fear of being overheard or interrupted.

Will pulls Tom closer by the nape and gently rolls him onto the mattress under him.

Tom’s gorgeous lying there, his lips are red-bitten and wet like ripe cherries, his eyes have darkened by arousal, his hair tousled by Will’s eager fingers.

Will falters and he has to take a moment for himself to just drink him in, desperate hunger burning deep in his belly.

”C’mon, Will,” Tom whispers in a hoarse voice and tugs Will closer, their mouths meeting in a sloppy kiss.

Will licks deeper into his mouth, then withdraws just enough to press a kiss on Tom’s throat, right under his jaw. ”What do you want?” he grunts, his voice darkened into a husky rumble. ”Tom.”

Tom turns his head to give him more room, his body arching, all liquid heat under Will, his fingers curling in Will’s short hair, tugging it.

Will grunts. _”Tom.”_

”You, you arse,” Tom breathes out brokenly and _god,_ his eyes are star-bright and lively and so full of raw want and love that it pierces Will’s lungs like they’re made of paper. ”I bloody want _you.”_

”You’ve got me,” Will replies and soothes the bite on Tom’s lovely pale skin, flushed beautifully by Will’s ministrations.

_Always been yours._

”You’re makin’ me blush – _oh - ”_ Tom gasps, pressing his pelvis into Will’s, seeking friction, and Will rolls his hips in response. A shudder goes through Tom’s muscles as he groans: ”Don’t bloody _tease_ me, please...”

Chuckling, Will runs his large, hot palms down Tom’s thighs and Tom shivers pleasantly at the sensation.

Tom’s long eyelashes flutter and he looks Will underneath them – everything in him burns like stars, he’s vibrant and full of life and _he’s raw and so human in the most beautiful way imaginable._ Will still can’t believe the awe he feels for being allowed to see _this._

”C’mon, Will,” Tom whispers, hooking his leg around Will’s waist. ”D’you want me to beg? ’Cause I’ll beg.”

Will’s throat feels parched dry, woollen. ”You don’t have to - ”

”I want you inside me,” Tom continues, his voice breathless, reverent, but determined whisper. He knows what he wants, he makes _no_ apologies for it, and Will feels like he’s about to burst out of his skin.

Bright-white heat boils in his veins, threatens to spill over and consume him, _everything._

Will swallows, his own breathing shallow, quick. ”Are you sure?” he asks, haggard, feeling his whole body tremble. ”Tom - ”

”Yeah, I’m sure,” Tom replies, and it’s like a holy oath, a secret that pours between his lips. ”I’ve been bloody sure for like – months and months and _months._ Been sure, Will, honestly, I am… please...d’you… do _you_ want - ?”

There’s a flash of uncertainty, lingering in Tom’s face, so Will kisses him, deep and long, their tongues sliding with practiced ease and Will combs Tom’s hair back from his forehead.

It works as Tom relaxes into the sheets.

”Yes,” Will whispers hoarsely against Tom’s lips, ”I do. For just as long. I _do.”_

Tom grins, lop-sided and so sweet it aches and fills Will with pure unadulterated _longing._

He presses a trail of hot, slow kisses down the hollow of Tom’s throat, down his chest and Will can feel him jerkily draw a violent gasp of air, then resuming to kiss his way down Tom’s stomach, to his navel -

”Y – you promised not to tease me, you bastard,” Tom breathes out, the muscles in his stomach quivering under Will’s mouth. _Sensitive._

”I’ve got you.”

Will parts Tom’s legs as he settles between them and brushes a tender kiss on the inside of his thigh. ”Tell me if you want to stop.”

”Ugh, don’t wanna stop.”

”Tom.”

”Fine, I’ll tell you, but dunno if you noticed, Will, I’m all on board – _oh - ”_

_All right then._

Tom’s voice catches when Will bows down and takes Tom’s cock in his mouth. His hips jerk instinctively under Will’s touch and Will presses his large palms into Tom’s skin, gently stilling him.

He hums around Tom’s length and runs his tongue on the underside of it, it sitting heavy in his mouth. He hollows his cheeks, marveling Tom’s choked moans, breaking on his lips, the way his muscles twist and tremble under him. _So beautiful -_

After a few minutes, he hears Tom gasping: ”Oh, stop, Will – not yet – ”

Will lifts his head up sharply, alarmed.

”You all right?” he asks, his voice scraped into a gravelly rasp and he searches for any signs of pain on Tom’s face.

Instead of discomfort, the rich crimson colour on Tom’s cheekbones deepens and spreads to his collarbones and then after an embarrassed beat, Tom reaches to touch Will’s face, thumbing the sharp jawline.

”Yeah, I’m bloody brilliant – just don’t wanna come yet,” he mumbles, shy and flustered. He moves his hand to sink his fingers into Will’s hair and tugs it, almost absently. ”C’mon, Will… kiss me?”

Will can definitely do that.

He surges upwards into another kiss, their tongues sliding with messy and unhurried strokes, and Will nearly jolts out of his haze as he feels Tom reach and wrap his hand around his cock.

”Tom - ” he grunts into the kiss and it turns into a low groan at the delicious pressure, squeezing at him just _right,_ going up and down his length, and the delicate way Tom twists his wrist sends red-white sparks pulsing under Will’s eyelids.

_God, he feels like he’s burning, inside out._

He can feel Tom smiling against his lips. ”You’re bein’ slow.”

”No, _you’re_ impatient as always,” Will counters back as a rough, heated whisper.

Tom giggles, all breathless and giddy and he shuffles to part from Will, to blindly to grab something from his nightstand. Will blinks in the dark and realizes it’s a tin jar of vaseline.

Suddenly all air rushes out of his hazy brain, hot blood pounds in every nerve of his body, boiling over in his veins.

 _Oh, he’s absolutely going to die,_ this much Will is certain.

Tom raises an eyebrow at him, a smug smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.

”Tom – ” Will chokes, but doesn’t get very far as Tom struggles to get the jar open. ”No. Let me.”

Will can barely recognize his own voice, it’s scratching at his wrecked throat, like his vocal chords have been torn apart.

Tom watches him, his gaze just as dark and shiny. ”You sure?”

” _Yes.”_

Will slicks his fingers into the salve, and slowly slides his thumb to caress around Tom’s entrance. Tom’s head shoots up from the pillow, his eyes wide.

”Easy, I’ll go slow,” Will murmurs and leans over to kiss Tom. Tom blinks and responds slowly, with such painful _softness_ that it unravels Will – somehow it feels even more intimate than him preparing Tom.

Tom settles back on the bed, resting on his elbows, content to just kiss Will, humming into it, and soon Will eases past that tight ring of muscles, slowly working him open.

He’s hyper-aware of every stuttering gasp and moan that Tom makes, of every shiver and broken whimper, his body so searingly hot it burns at Will’s skin. _Sun-bright and lovely._

” _Oh,_ Will – ” Tom’s tone climbs higher, the blue in his gaze gone glassy and black-edged as he stares at Will like he can’t get enough, either. ”Oh, that – Will, don’t stop – ”

”Not going to,” Will replies and thrusts his fingers back into Tom with renewed passion, sliding in and out, pushing back into Tom’s heat, and _god,_ the wet and sloppy sound of vaseline and his fingers makes Will’s whole nervous system go haywire.

With a strangled groan, Tom leans back, his head dropping backwards, revealing that white, desperately working throat that Will longs to kiss again, to nip and mark.

”C’mon, Will,” Tom wheezes, his breathing turned heavy and shallow. ”Please, c’mon, _c’mon,_ stop teasin’ me, I’m ready, promise I am, please fuck me - ”

The rhythm of Will’s fingers falters, the tight snap of his control nearly at a breaking point.

” _Please.”_

Tom’s voice shatters.

It’s enough.

”All right, all right,” Will manages to say, his own throat scrubbed _raw._ He can do that, whatever Tom wants, he’ll do it, _god -_

Will withdraws his trembling hand, fumbles with the vaseline jar and slathers more on his cock.

Body quivering all over with anticipation and want, Will hikes his arms under Tom’s knees to pull him closer so they’re aligned. Unable to help himself, Will leans to kiss Tom again, open-mouthed and messy, kiss him with the utter desperation and yearning, set deep in his bone-marrow.

With all that he has.

_I want you. I love you._

Tom kisses back with equal fervor, a rattling, wet sound of relief heaving out of him.

”Need you,” Tom whispers, ragged and his fingers tug at the fine hair on Will’s nape. ”Please.”

”I got you,” Will repeats, just as worn to shreds and slowly pushes the blunt head of his cock into Tom.

Instantly it’s as if all strength drains from Will’s knees that have sunken into the crumpled sheets – sensations assault his scrubbed bare nerve-ends, strip him frayed open.

It’s searingly hot inside Tom, he’s wet and pulsing around Will’s length like liquid heat, _it’s overwhelming and slick and beautiful and -_

_\- home._

Will thinks he’s never felt so grounded, so connected to another person, and he just -

He wants to burrow deeper, sink into Tom, fuse them into each other until their lines are blurred into one. _Until I am yours and you are mine, in every sense of it._

No controlling, no imbalance. Just belonging and existing together, in unison, equals in every way, _partners_.

With a ragged, shaky breath, Tom’s hand finds Will’s nape again, tugs him forward and their feverish eyes meet, searching, _intimate._ The moment expands to an infinite point, time ceases to exist.

_That spark of recognition, that sameness, flares, burns bright like a torch._

Will holds himself still, every muscle in his body screaming to _move,_ but he doesn’t. He _won’t._

Tom seems to hold on for a moment to adjust to the intrusion and then he goes _molten_ around Will, relaxing into the motion and it makes Will to heave out a gruff, raw sound in the back of his throat.

He’s not prepared for this, the way Tom just _opens_ around him and pulls him even deeper inside.

_God. You will be the death of me._

” _Oh_ ,” Tom breathes out brokenly as he rocks helplessly against Will, inching even closer.

”Are you all right?”

Tom nods. ”Yeah. Yeah, I am. I’m good, _god –_ I – it’s so good.” Will leans to kiss him, to comfort and reassure him through it, and Tom responds instantly. ”You can move. S’all right.”

Will gazes at him, just to make sure, and amusement flashes on Tom’s face before he nods.

Carefully Will pulls his hips back and pushes tentatively back in, the slide into that sweltering, tight heat threatening to drown him.

Tom’s back arches from the bed, sweat trickling down his neck, his ribs pressing dimly visible through his skin.

”Will – c’mon, _please – more,_ I’m not gonna _break - ”_

Will hurries to obey. He grips the back of Tom’s thighs, adjusts his position and thrusts into him harder. The bed’s springs squeak under their frantic movements, the sound of their skin gliding against each other.

Tom’s eyes fall shut as he writhes on the sheets, whining and whimpering, meeting every fierce pound of Will’s hips with his own. They’re so intertwined Will can barely figure out where he starts and where Tom ends.

Will leans forward, resting half of his weight against his elbow, as his thrusts become erratic, his release gathering thunder and electricity coiling and crackling in his bloodstream.

”Tom, _Tom –_ c’mon, love - ” Will can barely recognize his own voice, wrecked and deep, and he mouths Tom’s throat, licking the beading sweat, kissing red marks on the crook of his neck.

They’re moving in sync, Will digs his heels hard on the mattress and following that beautiful curve of Tom’s spine.

With a choked sob, Tom reaches between them to stroke his own hard, weeping cock, and Will doubles his efforts. The deafening sound of their bodies, _sweat-slick-skin_ , the bed springs, the moans and whimpers.

Tom holds him in an one-armed embrace for dear life and yanks him up into a desperate open-mouthed kiss, all teeth and tongue. It doesn’t take long for Tom to hurtle towards his release, and really, it never gets old, witnessing pure unbridled pleasure on his face, the way his whole being seems to blossom open _._

Will never gets tired of seeing him like this.

His spine bowed, Tom spills between them with a strangled cry and he slumps on the bed, his chest heaving with unsteady gasps.

After the haze in his head seems to settle a bit, Tom clenches lazily his inner muscles and tightens around Will’s cock and that’s all it takes, Will follows him over the edge, his vision whitening around the corners, pulses with stars.

They lie there for a moment, out of breath and sated satisfaction thrumming pleasantly under their skin. The flutter of Tom’s heart drums underneath Will’s ear, he can hear the hot rush of blood, _thump-thump-thump_ in his veins.

Alive, here, present and whole and _alive._

Drunk on endorphins and affection threatening to seep through his very skin, Will lifts his head to press a long, firm kiss on Tom’s mouth. Tom smiles into it and weaves his hand into Will’s hair, then slides to the side of his neck, soothing and tender.

”You all right?” Will asks and nuzzles the side of Tom’s face.

Tom’s gorgeous; his skin glows in the shades of rose and dawn-gold, his crinkled eyes have turned luminous blue in the dim darkness of their room. Utterly ravished and satisfied.

”Yeah,” Tom whispers back and pulls Will close enough to press their noses affectionately together. ”I’m fucking brilliant _. That_ was brilliant. How ’bout you?”

Will snorts, despite himself. ”You need to ask?” he asks, so very fond and runs his hand idly down Tom’s side.

”Pfft, _’course_ I do. I mean, I wanna know. In case I – or what if I… dunno, cocked it up?” Tom snickers to himself and Will laughs, deep in his throat.

Despite it, however, Will thinks he can make out a hint of uncertainty there. That won’t do, at all.

”You didn’t.” Will presses another lazy kiss on Tom’s throat, and with a soft sigh, Tom leans into him better and proceeds to card his fingers through Will’s hair.

”Okay, good. It wasn’t rubbish, then?”

”Never.” He brushes his lips on Tom’s shoulder. ”Was wonderful, love.”

Tom’s skin grows warm under Will. ”Oh.” It’s a small, shy squeak, almost. ”Well, good.” A pause. ”Well,there was _some_ cock-up. Technically, yeah? Like in the literal sense.”

Will snorts out another laugh. ”You’re impossible.”

Tom grins. ”Dunno what you’re on about, don’t act like you’re surprised by any of that.”

Smiling to himself, Will shakes his head. He’s not. At all. As silly, as _stupid_ of a joke it was, he’s still very comforted by the lightness.

It takes a bit of maneuvering, but Will carefully pulls out of Tom, causing him to hiss out in disappointment at the empty feeling left behind.

He gets up only to fetch a wet rag to clean them both and then he gathers a sleepy, sated Tom in his arms, ready to doze off.

”Will?” Tom mumbles, and Will hums in reply, settling his palms protectively on Tom’s waist. ”Love you.”

Will opens his eyes in the dark and buries his nose into Tom’s curls and kisses the base of his skull, gentle.

”… I love you, too.”

+

The next day, they are set to leave around noon, so they get up early to pack rest of their things.

(at least they try to – tom ensnares will and their lazy kisses and caresses turn into a playful wrestling match on the bed that result into further delaying.)

Will wouldn’t say the packing is something of a _hassle,_ to be honest – they are both used to travelling light, with only necessary luggage, but this time, he finds Tom scowling at the bed where he’s laid out some of his belongings.

”Trouble?” Will asks as he’s folding his clothes neatly on his own pile.

”Nah, just… d’you think it’s kinda dodgy, carrying an axe in your suitcase?”

It gives Will a pause. ”You could put a bow around it.”

Tom stares at him for a few seconds before he bursts out laughing. ”That’ll give ’em a proper pause, won’t it? ’Nah, coppers, don’t mind us, promise we’re respectable blokes, see, this here is for my Mum’.”

”You’re right, doubt that’s convincing,” Will replies, smiling and throws a roll of socks on top of his shirts.

”But it’s the _truth,_ innit. Her old one is so rubbish, the sharp bit’s so loose and wonky the next swing’s gonna chop someone’s toes off. We can’t have anyone else in the family losin’ something, Joe’s already down two. So, y’know, it’s a practical gift. For safety.” Tom tilts his head critically. ”Think I’ll put a bloody bow around it, can’t hurt.”

Will can’t help his smile from widening. ”I don’t think they’re going to look through our things.”

”Well, we don’t _know,_ do we?This is just thinkin’ ahead. Y’know, a precaution.”

”If you say so.”

”Yeah, I do, and _oi_ , Mister Sergeant, it was your idea anyway.”

Will shrugs, flashing that warm, _real, private_ smile at Tom. ”Guilty.”

”Yeah, you are.” They organize their clothes by the bed, measuring how much their suitcases can hold all in all. ”Oh, Will, I can put it here – if yours is all full?”

”No, I think I can fit it here. You might need to move your axe, though.”

”Oi, cheeky! D’you wanna carry all my underwear, then?”

”Give them here.”

”Oh, okay. This works. _Toothbrush!_ Fuck! Hey, want me to grab your shaving kit? Think we can still fit it in mine.”

Pausing to consider, Will rubs experimentally his chin and feels the growing stubble rasp against his palm. He forgot to shave last night but finds it rather hard to be sorry about it.

”Might as well. Thank you.”

Tom comes back from the bathroom, and the expression on his face is so close to smug mischief that it causes Will to raise an eyebrow in amused question.

”You know, I know I offered, but s’kinda shame to shave it. Stubble suits ya,” Tom says and pats gently Will’s cheek.

Will hums and covers Tom’s hand with his own, running his thumb on Tom’s skin. ”Yeah?”

Tom laughs. ”Pfft, what’s that, you _know_ it does, you handsome bastard. You with your lovely cheekbones ’n all, don’t even try.” He closes the distance between them to kiss Will with slow, careful-measured silliness and affection. _Just a simple hello._ Will hums into it, content. ”C’mon. We’re gonna be late.”

”No thanks to you,” Will teases him.

”Shut up, you. Like you didn’t have fun.”

Will did.

+

For all their jokes, they don’t get stopped or their things searched at the station or on the train. Mrs. Blake’s axe remains undiscovered.

Tom doesn’t stop smirking at Will.

+

Tom’s home town has turned into something resembling a Christmas card, and Will has to admit being quite enchanted by it.

Thick snow covers the rooftops like heavy sugar coating on a gingerbread house, icicles glimmering in the last rays of the setting sun. The cobble-stoned streets are aligned with lanterns set on stone steps, and nearly on every doorway there hanging red ribbons and Christmas wreaths with holly, ivy and mistletoe.

The Blake house’s yard is covered in untouched snow, but there’s a neatly shoveled path from the gate to the porch. Cozy yellow glow gleams in the windows, and Tom stops by the gate, just to take it in.

The look on his face is pure heart aching nostalgia and happiness, and Will’s glad to see him like that.

He lets his eyes wander around the yard.

The orchard. The bare, skeletal branches of the cherry trees.

It’s a startling realization to think back the first time he was here – heartbroken, desperate beyond all sense or reason, still clinging onto that fragile hope that it’s real, that he’s not late or hallucinating, _that Tom Blake is still alive in this world._

_(nothing left to lose, he was just a brittle, broken mess, his heart a mangled stump.)_

It seems like a lifetime ago.

All that withered paleness in Will’s life drained out, that hope blossomed through the cracks of his very core like spring’s first flowers, tentative and frail.

And it started _here._

_(it continued here)_

”Will?”

_(and he’s here now with tom.)_

Tom, with his nose red with the freezing temperature, with snow stars melting on his gold-tinted hair. _Here._

Will shifts under his heavy winter coat, reeling with the sudden emotional surge washing through him, fierce but… not unwelcome. Not at all. He allows himself feel and experience those things, every single thing.

It feels liberating.

”Let’s go?” Will asks, nodding towards the house.

Tom grins in response and reaches to take Will’s hand. ”Yeah, all right. C’mon.”

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I NEVER LEARN. I shouldn't make any promises about chapter content, ever. I'm slow, I get sidetracked and extra dialogue happens and we're still on Christmas DAMN. The smut wasn't planned at all, but I thought that there was NO WAY they wouldn't do that now that they were finally alone. So smut happened.  
> Anyway thank you so much for your comments and support, I love you all <3 Hope you're all having a wonderful February!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will & Tom arrive to the Blake house for Christmas and Tom has conflicted feelings.

The Blake house is just as warm and welcoming as Will remembers. The inside is full of smooth, wooden surfaces, cozy armchairs and carpets and the candles create a soft golden glow around the living room, the fireplace’s crackles against soot-blackened stones and a sweet, spicy scent hangs in the air.

Saffron, gingerbread, something like a burst of orange.

” - honestly think so, that seems like a shoddy investment, Joe – be a dear and would you hand me that – no, not that, the wooden one – thank you, darling. But it’s in such a unstable area.”

They hear Joe scoff in exasperation. ”I wouldn’t call it _that._ And how would you know?”

”One hears things,” Mrs. Blake replies primly, but Will thinks she sounds like she’s making fun of Joe, just a bit. ”And do you honestly think I haven’t been to London, myself? Tsk, dear, shame on you. I’m offended.”

”No, I – wait, are you?”

”No, I’m teasing you. But I do mean it that you could do better. _Gangs_ loiter there.”

” _Gangs –_ what, that’s what you’ve heard? The Fitzroy Place Gang’s not there anymore, Mum, no one’s going to shank me on the way to the office - ”

”It was _not_ that long ago, do not talk about it as if it’s ancient history, young man, the Forty Elephants still operate today – ”

Tom tilts his head, and to Will, he looks like a confused puppy. ”What’re they on about now?” he asks as he balances on one foot to untie his shoes and then straightens back to his full height.

”Criminal activity?”

”Yeah, the shanking bit doesn’t sound too good. Gotta be honest, didn’t exactly expect them to just – _Myrtle!”_ Tom squeaks as the dog comes racing down the stairs, her tail wagging furiously and she jumps at Tom, trying to lick at his face.

Tom drops on his knees to pet her neck, up to her floppy ears and gushing: ”There you go, look at you, old girl! Aw, I missed you so much, who is a good girl? Yes, you are!”

Joe and Mrs. Blake, obviously distracted from their argument by the noises, peek into the hallway.

” _Tom!_ And William!” Mrs. Blake greets them, brushes her hands in her flour-stained apron and spreads her arms. ”Oh, you made it, lovely! I hope your trip went smoothly?”

She looks the same as before; her round face is still weather-beaten, worn by stress and the sun, but everything about her is welcoming; her sparkling blue eyes, the kind crows feet pressed in the corners, her wide smile, perhaps a bit toothy but so _genuine_ it’s nothing but beautiful.

(there are few more silver streaks in her dark hair, that will does notice)

Tom presses a kiss on top of Myrtle’s head, between her perked ears and rubs her cheeks with such used easiness before getting up and sinking into his Mum’s embrace. It looks so easy, too, and Will knows just how tactile _Tom_ is, meaning it’s obvious how naturally this sort of reassurance comes to this family.

_So different from his own._

”Oh, let me look at you,” Mrs. Blake says, pulling back and holding Tom’s head between her palms. She watches him like she can’t quite get enough, and then, she smiles tenderly. ”Have you eaten well?”

” _Mum,”_ Tom groans, embarrassed. ”C’mon, you know I eat like a horse - ”

”He does, absolutely no change there,” Joe pipes up and dodges with a laugh when Tom tries to flick him on the forehead over Mrs. Blake’s shoulder.

”Boys,” she clicks her tongue playfully. ”No bickering! Honestly, it’s barely been two minutes. And _William!_ Merry Christmas, dear, come here – it’s so wonderful to see you!”

”You as well, thank you for inviting me,” Will replies honestly and lets her hug him – it doesn’t come as easily to him as it does to Tom, but he tries his best, as much as he does mean it. She’s warm and smells like warm pastries and tea. _No judgement. It’s all right._

”How are you?” she asks as she lets him go, but keeps holding his hands in her own; her hands are just as work-worn as her sons, just as strong. ”I heard what happened, that must’ve been hard.”

Once Will might’ve stiffened, pulled back behind the bullet-scarred walls, coiled back into himself, but this time, he just nods.

”It was the best decision,” he says without sharpness, without ichor boiling inside his veins, without bitterness. ”For everyone involved.”

Tom makes a strangled sound, very close to disapproval. ”Mum, why do you _do_ that? We’re barely out of the hallway, you said so, so you can’t just ask a bloke about his divorce! On _Christmas!”_

”Yeah, not really tactful, is it, Mum,” Joe adds.

”Hush, boys.” Undisturbed, Mrs. Blake turns her attention back to Will, who searches her face with certain amount of anxiety, but her expression remains friendly and warm. ”I’m very glad you’re here, William. You’re _more_ than welcome here. Always. You don’t have to worry about a thing. All right?”

Will’s throat goes dry. ”Yes, ma’am,” he manages to say. ”Thank you.”

The lines around her eyes soften. ”Of course. No matter what.” She squeezes his hands one more time. ”Now, you must be hungry – Joe made some sandwiches so dig in, I’ll finish that blasted cake even if it kills me – ”

”Oi, what cake are we talkin’ about? The Christmas cake?” Tom asks as they all shuffle towards the kitchen.

His mother scoffs. ”Exactly that, but the recipe is a gammy one, I should’ve trusted my instincts, I _always_ do the peels myself ahead of time, also it needs a good spoonful of rum, and I _will_ put rum in it, God be my witness – ”

”Mum, it’s - ”

”Don’t say it’s just a cake,” Joe whispers to them, and Tom closes his mouth instantly. ”Doesn’t end well, already tried it. Got told it’s a matter of honor at this point.”

”Oh, geez, already? Blimey.”

”Yeah. Hey, Will. Glad you two made it.” Joe lifts an eyebrow. ”The flat was left standing?”

”Pfft, ’ _course._ All right, if you don’t have anythin’ useful to say, bugger off, would you, I wanna have a word with Will – hey, Will?” Tom grasps at Will’s sleeve, tugs to pull him back to the corridor and Will turns to him, curious. Tom’s face is a little pink, nervous. ”Sorry that Mum ambushed you like that – ”

Will blinks. Oh, that. He can see why it would sit wrong with Tom.

”Tom. I’m fine. It’s all right.”

”For sure? ’Cause not really, it sort of wasn’t, was it. I dunno much about manners or fancy etiquette or whatever, but that – that could’ve gone way better, yeah?” He falters. ”You can tell me if something wasn’t okay, right?”

_Oh, Tom._

Even after all this time, Tom worries, he cares so much, he protects when he can, he tries his damn best even with so much on his mind already.

”I _know_ that,” he reassures Tom gently. ”I do.” He glances quickly around to make sure they are alone in the hallway and presses his mouth to Tom’s temple. ”Stop worrying, you know me. I don’t exactly hold myself back when it comes to complaining, do I?”

Hearing Will’s fond, teasing tone, Tom relaxes and gives a snort. ”No, that’s true, you grouch.” Then his smile wavers. ”You won’t have to tell me, like, right away but when you wanna talk about – you know, anything that bothers you… I’m here. For – for whenever you need me.”

Will’s heart melts. Being honest and being vulnerable with another person is terrifying and sometimes it’s unbearably hard – it’s showing your worst, bleeding wounds and ugly parts and being _bare_ to another soul, but with Tom…

… it’s easier. _It’s organic, it’s another natural step._

_(from the battlefield, from the trenches, to this)_

Will does know that Tom’s willing to listen. He knows, but it means so much to hear it said out loud. He pulls briefly Tom against his side and noses the short hair curling on Tom’s temple.

”...thank you, love.”

Tom bumps his head quickly against Will’s and flashes a smile – the one that rises slowly to full bloom, the one that shines with such inner radiance and pure joy that Tom seems to emit effortlessly, even after everything.

He nudges Will’s forearm. ”So… sandwiches?”

Will finds himself smiling back at him. ”Yes please.”

+

They enter the kitchen – Joe’s already settled by the table, absently leafing through a book, and Mrs. Blake is occupied with several pots on the cooker, muttering under her breath.

”So, everything all set for tomorrow?” Tom asks as he hands a plate to Will from the cabinet.

”More or less,” replies his mother. ”I still need to visit the Lithgows today, I promised to give that cranberry jam to Lizzie – poor lamb’s own looked like soup and her father-in-law is visiting, that awful man. And there’s still the Christmas choir tomorrow!”

”A choir?” Will asks curiously and sits across Joe with his sandwich and passes some napkins to Tom over the table.

Mrs. Blake brightens. ”Oh yes – they do it every Christmas at the church, they have such _wonderful_ voices. Especially young Annie sings with such grace, it’s a joy to listen. Last year she sung Silent Night so beautifully I saw that old crow Lewis cry, too, and that’s something you see once a century. Oh, Joe, also remind me to take the matches with us for the grave if I forget – last time we didn’t have enough.”

”Will do.”

_Grave?_

Tom pauses in between a bite of his sandwich when he notices Will’s silent question. ”Meaning Dad,” he clarifies and gives a half-hearted shrug. ”We usually visit his grave on Christmas.”

”Oh. That’s a nice tradition,” Will says, meaning it.

Tom offers him a faint smile. ”Yeah, I mean… time to remember, too, I reckon? But his grave is on the way so we usually wish ’im merry Christmas. You got a wreath already, Mum?”

”Is that volunteering, dear? Or are you being cheeky?” Mrs. Blake laughs and adds nutmeg to the bowl. The rich scent of sweet spices and the headiness of rum hang heavy in the kitchen.

”What d’you mean, I’m bloody _good_ at those!”

Joe makes a face and grins. ”Dunno if we can call it that – he put his toy soldiers there once,” he says to Will, who is absolutely not surprised by that and just nods. ”They were there, just hanging about. Think you caused Mrs. Shay to nearly faint when she came to knock.”

Tom’s face turns purple in indignation. ”Oi, I was a _kid_ then!” he huffs. ”This is slander. ’n by my own bloody family.”

He mimics a knife twisting to his heart but Will can see that mischievous glint in his eyes, the familiar tug of his lip, ready to bubble out, unable to restrain it.

Mrs. Blake deems it safe to let the cooker be and leans to kiss Tom’s head. ”I’ve missed you very much.”

And she playfully smears some flour on his nose.

” _Eugh!”_

She goes on telling them about her day-to-day and how her weeks go now that she lives by herself.

Having an empty nest again isn’t easy, but this time she’s not crippled by fear for their lives at the front lines so she’s taken full advantage of all the free time she has. She’s taken on some hobbies whenever the garden and the farm allows her such – crafts, essentially, trying crocheting and continuing her passionate quilt project.

_Tom is truly his mother’s son. He is so very similar in that sense._

”Of course, my _own_ mother would weep if she ever saw my crochet,” Mrs. Blake continues cheerfully and grins as if she finds some reason for delight in it. ”Ghastly work, I’ll be first to admit that.”

”How so?” Will asks, taking a bite of his sandwich. It’s beef and cheese, with deliciously salty butter.

”Oh, I wasn’t born under crocheting stars, quite frankly,” Mrs. Blake replies easily and knocks her ladle against the pot. ”Even though, to be fair, _this_ would hopefully appease her, God bless her.”

”Nah, think she’d snark ’bout the peels or whatever was the fuss ’bout that,” Tom teases her and Mrs. Blake shakes the ladle at him, but laughter follows suit _._

+

They spend the afternoon tidying and hanging rest of the Christmas decorations around the house.

Tom and Will help to shovel some snow around the garden, clearing a path to the shed, with Myrtle following them eagerly, her tail wagging.

It’s a beautiful winter day – one of those days when the sky is clear blue and the sun has a hazy pale yellow halo around it, casting the low-hanging light over the horizon and the town’s rooftops. The sun doesn’t warm much during this time of year, but the brightness does feel like a nice change.

Will thinks of a proper description. _Serene._ That’s what it feels like. Reassurance and serenity of nature _._ In the sunlight, the garden and orchard hold slumbering, stark beauty with the untouched snow, life buried underneath.

Quite content, Will pushes a snow drift further from the path, his muscles straining under the jumper and the coat. There’s a pleasant burn to his biceps, and he finds certain sort of satisfaction in manual labor like this.

The simplicity.

Around them, the snow glitters. It still hasn’t turned to gray wet slush either, ready to soak through shoes.

Will’s thoughts scatter when a snow ball hits him on the chest and it explodes. He looks up sharply, sighs in exasperation and pins a look at grinning Tom.

”Really?” he deadpans, but doesn’t even bother hiding the twitch of his mouth.

”Oh yeah, really,” Tom snickers.

Will throws a snow ball back at him, not at all serious. ”Thought you had enough of snow already.”

”Yeah, but that was _yesterday_ , Will, c’mon, keep up,” Tom laughs, his hair tousled by wind and snow, and honestly, Will should’ve seen that coming.

A foolish, impossibly young part in him breathes under all the scars and bullet holes and _simple joy_ of enjoying snow returns, just like from the yesterday’s sledding –

– so Will scoops a handful of snow and dashes after Tom, who realizes with a jolt what’s happening and scrambles to get away, shrieking.

” _No! No, Scho – wait!”_

His loud shrieks break into helpless laughter as Will tackles him onto the snow and splatters his hair with fresh snow.

” _AAAUGH, IT’S BLOODY COLD – WILL!”_

His laughter is a beautiful sound. Loud and shameless and so, _so happy._

Snow trickles down Tom’s temple and he lays panting on the drift, staring at Will, his gaze prismatic with fragments of sapphire and summer skies.

_(we are allowed to be happy)_

”You got me,” Tom grins, and the lovely red colour glows against his skin, almost shimmering translucent.

Will smiles back at him and reaches to brush some from Tom’s forehead. ”Did I?”

”Yeah, definitely. I’m down. _Fuck_ , you’re heavy. All right, so one win for Will Schofield who bested an innocent bystander – ”

”Don’t know about ’innocent’.”

”Reckon no, obviously not anymore ’cause we did that and everybody heard, probably traumatized our poor landlady too while we were at it, can you imagine – ” Tom continues completely unashamed and breaks again into giddy laughter as Will’s cold fingers poke him under the collar.

” _Oi_ now.”

”What?” Tom asks innocently and flashes his teeth at Will, teasing. ”I’m just havin’ a laugh.”

Will softens, because of course he does. ”I know,” he replies with amusement, ”at my expense.”

”Nah, _with_ you, Scho, with you!”

”Oh, is that how it goes?”

”Yeah! Wouldn’t laugh at your mug… you old man.”

In response, Will pulls the rest of Tom’s woollen hat over his eyes.

Tom squeaks. _”Hey!”_

Chuckling low in his throat, Will shakes his head and gets up from the bank. ”Come on. You’ll freeze.”

”Yeah, no shite, whose fault is that?”

Will grabs him by the hand and helps him up from the snow bank; it’s what they do. They are so incredibly used to each other that way that they barely notice the difference anymore – moving in the same space, sharing that same orbit together with instinctive familiarity.

Privacy wasn’t afforded in the trenches; it was a rare luxury that was first discarded when you stepped into the stale, smoke-filled bunkers, to mud and cold and bleakness, and getting rid of that sense of _together_ is hard to disentangle now.

It’s not conscious, not exactly, but it’s how they operate.

_(how it’s carved to their spines.)_

Tom busies himself by jostling the snow from his coat and squirms. ”Ugh, did you put snow down in my shirt, _you arse?”_

”No.”

”You liar, that’s playin’ dirty,” Tom laughs, dimples rising. He shakes the rest of his clothes and makes a rather graceful twirl on the pathway. ”Damn, I bloody hate the cold.”

Will resists the physical urge to pull Tom closer and kiss him. He settles for bumping Tom’s shoulder – accidentally nearly sending him back to the snow drift.

+

Inside they finish rest of the preparations and Will thinks things are going quite well. The whole house seems to glow with amber-warm lights, the Christmas tree glimmers and sparkles with ribbons, glass and crystals.

Mrs. Blake is in a cheerful mood as well, whistling around the house – another trait that she shares with her son, that Will notices with amusement – and in the end, it’s Will’s own fault for not looking up.

He bumps into Tom in the doorway, and then he hears Mrs. Blake’s startled laugh.

”Oh, dear, I’m sorry, boys – I had plans to move it to the foyer’s side – ”

_Mistletoe._

Will blinks stupidly at the innocent looking little plant, hanging above them.

_Oh._

On the other side of the living room, Joe’s frozen, his features have stiffened with badly stifled anxiety as he stares at them as if waiting for an explosion.

With a jerky head tilt, Will finds Tom’s eyes, dread building in his chest – but Tom doesn’t look alarmed.

_No._ Tom raises an eyebrow at Will in silent question that Will knows, then Tom just rolls his eyes with such _fondness_ and tugs Will closer to press a kiss on his cheek.

Just like that. Simple, chaste, barely lingering against Will’s scruffy stubble. It’s easy – one fluid, familiar gesture, one that they’ve shared so many times before.

_(will’s whole body relaxes, seems to exhale out the tension)_

”There. Sorry, Scho,” Tom says easily and winks. ”I’m a good respectable bloke, so no tongue for ya.”

Will hums in reply and shoots an amused, just as fond look back at him. This is easy, this he knows how to handle.

”All right, if you say so,” he answers, and Tom laughs.

”C’mon, stop distractin’ me with twigs in ceilings ’n come help me already. No way I’m dragging all this shite upstairs by myself.”

”Shite that you packed yourself.”

”I _know,_ but it’s so bloody heavy, can feel my knees poppin’ out. Come on? Give me a hand?”

Will snorts. The things he’s ready to do for this man. _Always._

Behind him, Will thinks he can feel someone’s stare burning at his skin – he’s got a good idea who it is, but he’s scared to turn around, perhaps to find Mrs. Blake’s accusing glare, the poison and anger scalding through everything that he is, like acid and gunfire smoke, to find him lacking and cracked and _disastrous to her son_ but –

”Well, I do think it’s better near the stairs,” he can hear Mrs. Blake ponder as she shuffles into view with her basket of textile scraps. Will searches her expression with a sinking sensation of dread, the pessimistic voice hissing again in his skull, _this is it,_ but her face is neutral, betraying nothing.

Tom purses his mouth into a pout. ”Yeah, better not ambush anyone ’cause let me say, Mr. Trevelyan ain’t gonna come through the kitchen like we did – just in case you’re thinking snoggin’ him, Mum.”

”Thomas!” Mrs. Blake admonishes him with a click of her tongue. ”It’s _traditional.”_

”Nah, _eggnog’s_ traditional, innit, just go for it and offer him that.”

Her cheeks turn a little red. ”Thomas Blake, I can’t believe the rot that comes out of your mouth sometimes!”

”He smells like onions but he ain’t bad, now is he. Liked Myrtle, too, if I remember right. He’s the old bloke coupla streets down, really fancies Mum,” Tom adds to Will.

”The post master?”

”Yeah, him! Matthews was the butcher chap.”

Joe seems to have recovered as well and chuckles weakly. ”Yeah, Trevelyan is miles better than Matthews, let’s be honest, Mum.”

She tilts her chin. ”I am not taking courting advice from my sons, thank you very much,” she replies wryly, but no one can mistake it for annoyance.

”Dunno, we’re pretty good at this,” Joe says, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

”You are _young_ , that is different. Think you’ve invented the wheel, honestly, you lot,” Mrs. Blake scolds them, but her eyes are sparkling. ”How about you? We made a deal that I can’t ask about Maggie – ”

”No, you can’t,” Joe pipes casually.

” – and I’m honoring that deal, I’m afraid, so I’m asking you two – any new lady acquaintances in London?”

It’s such an innocent question, teetering on the brim of polite conversation topics and Will understands where it’s coming from, but it hits a little too close to a bare nerve, if the way Tom’s posture straightening is any indication. Like a vertebrae snapping in place.

To his credit, Tom’s tone remains cheerful – a bit too cheery for it to be strictly genuine – and says: ”Nope, not discussin’ that, either – c’mon, Will, can we get that trunk upstairs, yeah?”

+

It happens when the evening has darkened outside the windows.

They’ve carried more firewood inside, and Will’s noticed Tom growing more tense, uneasy in his skin. Will’s more than aware of what’s bothering him; the secret is ready to boil out of his bones in a wave of red foam, and he knows it’s happening.

There’s something haunting in Tom’s eyes, something that Christmas joy can’t reach.

_Tick-tock –_

As Mrs. Blake announces she’s going to pop a short visit to the Lithgows and pulls her winter coat on, Tom breaks.

”Mum?”

Will thinks: _This is it._

Warmth dissipates. The air shifts. Fractures under pressure that only the two of them feel.

Will’s lungs tighten, ready to split open his whole chest, but he stays still in his place. Ready to act. Whatever Tom needs.

”Yes?” Mrs. Blake asks, sounding absent-minded as she’s searching for her gloves. The normalcy of the situation feels stark and crushing against the true reality of what’s happening.

Tom swallows, and it’s such a hitched sound.

”Mum, I – can you – can you stop for a bit?” he asks hoarsely and maybe it’s his tone, that desperate edge that alarms Mrs. Blake to whip around.

”What is it?” she asks and steps closer, her eyes flickering across Tom’s anxious face. ”Tom, what is it? What’s wrong?”

”Nothing – nothing’s wrong,” Tom hurries to say, but it’s not very convincing because he looks wild and harried. ”I – just wanna tell you something.”

Mrs. Blake’s eyebrows pull together in confusion. ”What is it?” she asks and now there’s a hint of nervousness in there, too. ”Tom? You can tell me anything. What’s bothering you?”

Will sees it happening.

_The fractures splinter further._

Tom’s chest gives a tiny, shallow jerk in mid-breath. ”Me – me and Will are together,” he finally says, barely louder than a whisper yet it rings through the air sharp and piercing like a gunshot.

The silence that follows is a void.

Mrs. Blake’s hand stills. ”Together, dear?”

Tension gathers in the muscle line around Tom’s jaw, and he’s trembling. ”Yeah… like – like a couple,” he stutters.

Mrs. Blake’s frozen. She opens and closes her mouth repeatedly, reeling.

”I’m – excuse me?” she says, and it’s more like inhaling it between her teeth, and Will truly feels it’s like watching mines tear a battlefield into shreds and there’s nothing he can do to stop it from happening.

”Y – yeah, he – he makes me so happy, and I – Mum, yeah, s’pose I _am_ queer then – ”

Silence continues, and the longer it goes, Will can see the pain carving deeper onto Tom’s ashen white face.

”Mrs. Blake,” Will says haggard and tangles his fingers with Tom’s together in support, in comfort, _anything_ to help this situation, to help _Tom_ through this.

”I - ” Mrs. Blake sways slightly, looking frighteningly small in her thick winter coat. Her eyes are unfocused as she tries to process what she’s heard.

The silence is excruciating.

Tom can’t bear it and says brokenly: ”Mum?”

_It’s a plea. It’s begging. It’s desperate hope._

_(again and again)_

It snaps her out of her stupor, and she shakes her head. ”No – no, I’m sorry, Tom, I – I just – everything is all right, sweetheart – ”

”Is it?” Tom asks, his voice now cracking.

” _Yes._ It is. Just – ” Mrs. Blake regains the control over herself and breathes deeply, to steady herself. Turmoil of emotions flash in her eyes as she looks at them. _Both of them._ In the end, she just looks… _lost._ ”I – I have to go. Lizzie’s waiting for me, but I promise you we will discuss this – I – I’m so sorry, sweetheart, we _will_ talk about this, I promise.”

She hesitates, her hand on the doorknob. ”No matter what, Tom, I – I’m not angry. I’m _not_.”

With that, she turns and leaves the house.

+

Tom _shatters_.

It’s one of the most heartwrenching things Will has ever witnessed.

Tom’s anguish pours out in thick waves, he gasps out a dry, broken breath like he’s drowning, he curls into himself, and _god,_ Will can see the pure agony, torment etched onto his face, all in its whole brutality.

”Why did I do that?” he whispers, gutted and presses a shaking hand to his mouth. ”I shouldn’t have said a fucking thing, Will – I – I shouldn’t have said bloody _anything…_ I messed everything up, didn’t I – ”

”No, Tom, you didn’t _\- ”_

” – she hates me, _I disgust her – ”_

”You don’t – ”

With that, Tom crumples and starts to cry – painful wracking sobs that seem to cripple him, seize Tom by the core of _him_ , and instantly Will wraps his arms tightly around him, pulling him closer, as if he could absorb all of Tom’s pain by pressure alone.

He brushes his lips into Tom’s hair, kisses him on the crown of his head, murmurs reassuring nonsense and just rocks him in his arms.

After a minute or two, he leads Tom carefully to the couch, sets him down and gently takes Tom’s head between his palms. He leans to rest his forehead against Tom’s, their noses touching lightly.

Tom’s breathing increases into shallow, quick little hitches as he struggles to relax, tears still streaming down his face, and Will holds him through it.

”What do you need? What can I do?” he asks, his voice a low rumble, frantic to help.

Tom draws another choked gasp that’s closer to a sob. ”Tell – tell me a verse?”

Will’s heart aches with agony that’s sharp and gritting in the sinews, in the veins.

”What would you like to hear?” he murmurs, and Tom lets out a wet hiccup, as Will runs his thumb tenderly on the fine curve of his cheekbone.

”Dunno, whatever comes to mind,” Tom whispers. ”Just talk to me. _Please.”_

He slumps into Will, nestling into the crook of Will’s neck, and Will’s arms are tight, protective around him as they curl into the couch’s cushions.

Pressing another kiss on Tom’s hair, Will murmurs: ” _Hope is the thing with feathers – that perches in the soul – and sings the tune without the words – and never stops – at all – ”_ He adjusts Tom’s weight so they’re more comfortable on the couch. ” – _and the sweetest – in the Gale – is heard – and sore must be the storm – that could abash the little Bird – that kept so many warm – ”_

He keeps murmuring it, verse after verse, soft and soothing, running his large palm down Tom’s forearm, then to his spine, up and down, pressing his nose into the soft temple, whispers the rhymes into Tom’s hair, pulls him closer and _whispers._

Until Tom’s trembling eases.

”We can leave if you want,” Will says quietly. ”We can leave right now. We don’t have to stay.”

”Nah, no – I reckon we need to talk,” Tom says, sounding miserable. ”No matter where it ends, yeah?”

He lifts his head to look at Will, and he’s exhausted, pained and distressed. Scrubbed hollow.

_Oh, love…_ Will thinks, heartbroken on Tom’s behalf and reaches to brush tears away with his thumb.

”Do you want me there?” he asks, and Tom nods frantically.

”Yeah, I don’t think I can handle facin’ her alone. _God._ What the hell am I gonna do?”

”Want to hear my suggestion?”

Tom gives him a tired look and just nods. Will squeezes the back of Tom’s neck. ”First we’re going to wait for her to come back. Then we’ll talk. And then we’ll see what happens.”

Tom exhales. ”Okay,” he says, sounding slightly calmer.

They sit on the couch, Will keeps holding Tom and whispering pieces of poetry to him. Line after line. He’s relieved that he could offer at least some distraction for Tom – they are so engrossed with it that they don’t hear the door opening and someone’s footsteps approaching.

Only when her silhouette stands in the doorway, they startle apart and fix their positions.

Mrs. Blake has shed her winter coat, but this time, she doesn’t look small; her eyes are not red-rimmed or her skin splotched. She meets their nervous gazes across the living room without a word, and Tom can’t stand it.

”Mum – ” he chokes out and scrambles to his feet, ”I’m sorry, I am – I know this didn’t go the way you imagined or – or how you wanted, that I – I _disgust_ you now or t – that I’m a sinner or whatever – ”

”Tom. _Tom,_ stop.” Mrs. Blake blinks rapidly and a wavering smile appears on her lips. ”Tom. No, sweetheart, you don’t disgust me. Tommy, you couldn’t. You are my son. My _child._ I’ve known you since the day I felt you first move when I was expecting you. When I held you for the first time in my arms. You are _my son_. You could not disgust me. I love you. Every bit of you. I _love you._ And nothing, absolutely nothing will ever change that. I will be your mother for as long as I am alive and I will _never_ stop loving or supporting you as long as I am on this Earth. And you just – you told me an incredibly difficult thing, a thing that must’ve been so personal to share and I know it must’ve been frightening to confess.”

Her face contorts with deep sorrow that Will can feel in the furthest corners of his heart.

”I’m so sorry for reacting the way I did… for walking away. I know I must’ve hurt you deeply. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. But as I walked to Lizzie, I was thinking it through, what you told me. You told me you were happy with William. And that’s more than any mother can ever ask for, isn’t it – for their child to be happy.”

Mrs. Blake reaches to cradle his head so gently, her own face shining with a tender smile, so real and accepting that it punches all air out of Will’s lungs. She’s the epitome of unconditional love, all of it radiating from her.

Tom’s chest heaves like his lungs are collapsing into paper and tears, and he stares at her with such despair, such broken hope that it’s not a trick – that they are hearing this correctly –

”It’s all right, Tom,” Mrs. Blake whispers, brushing Tom’s tears away. ”It is. You have been very brave.”

”I – I dunno how it happened, I just – it’s _him._ And I just…”

”You’ve always had so much love to give, Tommy,” she says warmly.

Tom’s whole body seems to empty out with his shaky exhale and he struggles to even out his breathing.

”I – I didn’t wanna hide it,” he whimpers. ”This is important to me, _he’s_ so important to me, I didn’t wanna hide this from you.”

Tears glimmering in her eyes, with such devastating clear blue like her sons, Mrs. Blake pulls Tom into a tight embrace.

”Thank you for telling me, Tommy,” she whispers, petting Tom’s hair. ”For trusting me with it. That couldn’t have been an easy thing to carry.”

With an uneven wrenched sob, Tom grasps at the back of her blouse and buries his face into her shoulder and just shakes his head.

”Love you, Mum. So much.”

She laughs, wet and relieved and pulls back just to gaze at him. ”I love you, too. I will worry, of course I will….but that is just the part of being a parent.” Her attention drifts over to Will. ”And you love my son?”

”Mum, c’mon...” Tom breathes out helplessly like there’s no strength left in him to admonish her. Will doesn’t mind. He’ll gladly do this, for Tom.

Instead he meets her eyes, as steady as he can and nods.

”Yes.”

_Always._ He’ll answer this question for the rest of his life if he has to – face any doubt, face all the questions and unkindness if that’s what it takes.

Mrs. Blake watches him, close and careful, but it’s not unkind. ”I believe you,” she finally says smiling, and it softens the harsh lines around her eyes and mouth. ”You went through incredible lengths for him, even before. _Then._ You delivered the message to save 1600 men.”

”Not just for the King or country,” Will rasps back.

”No, I did not think so,” muses Mrs. Blake. ”I’d imagine you did it because it was the right thing to do... but you also did it for Tom.”

” _Yes.”_ There it is; stripped down to the bare bones of it, raw and beating underneath it. That’s what it was.

_Because Tom asked._

_Because he was dying._

_Because Tom died for it._

_Because Will loved him._

Mrs. Blake hesitates. ”The war was – it was a cruel, _brutal_ trial, monstrous in every possible scale imaginable… more so for you lads than any of us here can ever even comprehend. Then and now afterwards. Things work and then they don’t, do they? So finding mutual solace, finding peace and comfort and _love_ in another person…. That is invaluable. You two are grown men, more than able to decide your own path. I have nothing against it, against happiness like that. I will only wish the best for you.”

A violent shudder goes through Tom. ”Mum...” he gasps, and her eyes crinkle in the same as Tom’s. ”You mean that?”

”Yes,” Mrs. Blake says and pats Tom’s cheek. ”I do mean that. Always.” She rises on her tip-toes to press her lips to Tom’s forehead. ”Now… how do you boys fancy a nightcap?”

It’s startling lightness that she uses, and with her tone, the atmosphere seems to ebb away and settle.

”Ugh, yeah, please. Will?”

Their gazes meet, and Will – Will can see it all shining back at him.

_Relief, love, joy,_ _gratitude,_ _fresh and bright._

His own mortal body feels like expanding and thrumming with relief so palpable and visceral he could breathe it. He takes Tom’s hand and weaves their fingers together.

Tom squeezes back just as tightly.

Mrs. Blake excuses herself and disappears into the kitchen, and finally Tom sags into Will’s chest.

”Fuck _me_ , that was _terrifying.”_

Will nods, more than agreeing with that sentiment and drops a kiss on Tom’s hair. ”You were brilliant,” he says quietly.

”Yeah? Felt like a bloody disaster, didn’t it, was sure I was gonna have a stroke...” After breathing deeply in and out a few times, Tom looks up; the night has wrung him out exhausted and haggard, but the relief has made him pliant, mellow.

”...I’m proud of you,” Will says, carding his fingers through Tom’s hair. God, he is, he’s so proud, so fiercely in love with this flawed, reckless, brave person who loves so deeply and with such ferocity, Will just stands in _awe_ of him.

These acts of bravery that Tom does every day, his utter conviction and faith in people despite terror and uncertainties, he still does it. _Despite everything they’ve seen._

”Yeah?” Tom whispers just as quietly with a hum and leans into Will’s palm.

Will nods again, more firmly. ”I am. You – you _were_ brilliant.”

The tired, harrowed shadows around Tom’s eyes fade, even though he’s still drained by the confession, he grins, all lop-sided and shy.

”Aw, c’mon, Will – stop with the compliments already… had a proper freak-out, didn’t I?”

”Doesn’t matter. You stayed. Even when you didn’t have to, even when it looked bad, you stayed and confronted her, had an honest talk about it. You did everything you could so _right.”_

The crystal wetness in Tom’s eyes shift, cling to his lashes, and he smiles – heartbreakingly relieved and happy.

”You really would’ve left with me? Just like that?”

”If you needed to… _yes_. I would have.”

Tom’s hand settles on Will’s chest, his fingers splayed across, as if he’s marveling the contact.

_The beat of Will’s heart underneath his palm._

Will covers Tom’s hand with his own, just squeezes Tom’s fingers, running his thumb on the knuckles. They just enjoy the closeness, the simple intimacy of sharing this enormous moment with each other.

”I’m – I’m so glad you’re here with me,” Tom whispers and leans forward, in that way of his that asks for a kiss without actually bothering to say it.

Will is more than happy to meet him half-way and close the distance in a slow, sweet kiss.

_Likewise._

_They’re all right._

_+_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh I'm so mean to poor Tom, sorry.  
> I played with the idea of Mrs. Blake walking in on them making out but this had to be Tom's choice.  
> Emotions are difficult and when you're shocked, you don't always react logically to things. Which is why Mrs Blake left. Which she probably regretted as soon as she did but she had to think the whole thing through.  
> I hope you liked the chapter! Feedback's always welcome! I love you guys, thank you again for being so lovely <3

**Author's Note:**

> Send help, I don't know what I'm doing. Also if you see any grammar mistakes - prepositions and stuff like that - pls tell me, I'm not a native speaker (Finnish yooo!) and I always want to improve!  
> Thank you so much for reading!! <3


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